


The Agreement

by Jade56



Series: Mycroft's Secrets and Sherlock's Memories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Palace, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Virgin Sherlock, minor injury, post-series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: Sherlock has rediscovered his long-buried feelings for his brother, and Mycroft has revealed what he has always felt for Sherlock. Looking back on the intimacy they shared, however, Mycroft fears they have been too hasty, and fights with his doubts. Sherlock, meanwhile, must deal with his recovered memories, and get used to keeping the truth about his relationship with his brother hidden from his friends.But neither of them has to struggle alone, even if Sherlock has to make an agreement with Mycroft that the younger Holmes is none too pleased about.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damjia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damjia/gifts).



> Edit: Made some small changes in the series after learning more about consent laws in the UK.

To move from the quiet atmosphere of the Diogenes Club to the lively air of 221B Baker Street takes, on average, about forty minutes by walking. While there is little to recommend this walk when the weather is poor, the foot traffic is pronounced, or one is pressed for time, this stroll through the affluent areas of Mayfair and Marylebone can be very pleasant in the correct circumstances. The journey allows one to make interesting examinations of others who pass by, and provides for a useful bit of exercise. Furthermore, more than one person has recommended longs walks for managing stress and generally clearing one’s mind.

For Mycroft, all the conditions were correct, and he knew he could use a long walk. Though always mindful of getting his exercise, he was more interested in the calming effect that such a walk would afford him. He was nervous.

Nobody would have known it, of course. Years of working in his field had taught Mycroft to mask any kind of apprehension, and through long experience, he had become especially adept at hiding his worries when thoughts of Sherlock weighed on his mind.

Just a few days prior, he had woken up in bed with Sherlock. Their busy lives had called them away for each other since then. Despite that, Mycroft had spent nearly every free moment thinking about what had happened, simultaneously relishing in what had been like a sweet dream and berating himself for letting his self-restraint slip at last.

It had all started that evening days ago, when Sherlock had come to his home and proclaimed that he remembered all that had passed between them as children. Those memories of long, comforting embraces in the night, and feelings stirring unlike those felt by ordinary brothers, had all been uncovered in Sherlock’s mind. His false recollection of an arrogant and unfeeling brother was shattered with the rest of the stories he had rewritten in his head.

As with the traumatic memories of his sister and his childhood friend, the memory of the depth of their bond had been buried for a good reason, Mycroft knew. Probably, the reason was that young Sherlock could not bear the guilt and disgrace of such forbidden feelings any easier than he could carry memories of his lost friend and his destructive sister. Mycroft had always known this, knew it better than anyone other than Sherlock could, and it was why he had done everything in his power to keep the entirety of Sherlock’s reprogramming intact. Let the burdens of the past be forgotten, he would have said, so that Sherlock could grow strong and whole, free from despair and shame.

Sherlock’s memories had returned, and so far, he seemed to have come to terms with his difficult past, but Mycroft was aware that this might not be true forever. He hoped for the best, but he considered it possible that, someday, the trauma might again become too much to bear, and Sherlock might wish that he had never recalled what had been forgotten.

For Mycroft, forgetting had never been an option. Being not so young as Sherlock at the time of these incidents, Mycroft was able to make better sense of them, and was not overwhelmed by the trauma to the extent that his small brother was; more importantly, however, someone had to watch over Sherlock, keeping an eye on his condition, as well as maintain what Uncle Rudy began so long ago and ensure that Eurus never escaped her prison.

Not that it was ever really a considered decision he made, to always remember. It would have been impossible to do otherwise. Though his memory became even more enhanced in its capacity for detail after he studied the mind palace technique, he had already possessed talent in that area. Thus, he could not help but store in fresh condition the emotions that had gripped him as he had held Sherlock when they were children, the affection and concern he felt as he drifted to sleep with Sherlock resting on his chest, under Mycroft’s arm. Nor could he dismiss from his mind the years after that he had spent watching over Sherlock, sometimes from nearby and sometimes from afar, worrying about him not infrequently and yearning for him as often.

It was with memories of closeness and longing hanging in the air, on that strange morning, that Mycroft was led by his brother to the shower. Mycroft had been so dizzy with joy that he could hardly stop to think again about what they were doing. With warm water falling over them, he had held Sherlock close. Though he now looked back on the morning with astonishment, at the time, Mycroft had been so elated to have Sherlock in his arms that he could hardly care about decency. Instead, Mycroft ran his hand down Sherlock’s body, caressing his chest.

Though very eager, Sherlock had seemed unsure of what to do, his hands touching Mycroft’s arms uncertainly, and his eyes didn’t know where to stay.

“Is this all right, Sherlock?” Mycroft had asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock had answered, “except you aren’t doing anything. Do I need to remind you how that fantasy of yours went?”

Caught in that mad elation he could scarcely credit now, Mycroft had chuckled, and said, “Not at all.”

Gently, he took his firm grasp and stroked Sherlock with his thumb, enjoying greatly how Sherlock gasped and pushed into his hand.

“More,” Sherlock had whispered, and more he had received.

Oh, it was difficult to admit to himself that he had truly stroked his brother in the shower, but it was a joy to remember. Sherlock had grasped onto Mycroft’s shoulders, and rocked against Mycroft’s hand.

Though his eyes fluttered from the sensations he felt, Sherlock’s gaze still bore an element of uncertainty, another hint that he was not particularly experienced in intimate matters.

Mycroft had leaned closer. “Look at me, Sherlock. Look at my eyes.”

Sherlock did just that, and their eyes met for an intense, brilliant second; then he pulled Mycroft in for a kiss as hot and deep as the one they had shared in the bed. The passionate move made Mycroft wonder about his idea of Sherlock’s experience. Certainly, he was no stranger to kissing.

Indeed, Sherlock had recovered his confidence with notable speed, soon steadying the pace of his hips and moaning deeply into their kiss, beautiful in ever sound and movement. It was, up to that date, the best shower of Mycroft’s experience, and the words of praise and gratitude he had murmured to his brother possibly revealed this to Sherlock’s quick mind.

Afterward, for the rest of the morning, Sherlock had looked rather pleased with himself, and he boldly professed that he was happy to have given Mycroft something he had long wanted. Mycroft himself had previously admitted to him, among too many things, that he had imagined a shower of this kind between them. While embarrassed, Mycroft was charmed that Sherlock was so pleased. It was fortunate that, Mycroft’s misgivings aside, they had both enjoyed themselves.

(The experience was not actually so novel to Mycroft as Sherlock supposed, as it was a scene that Mycroft had imagined more than once in great detail with the Sherlock of his mind palace, though there was no need for the real Sherlock to know anything about that. For all that Mycroft had admitted to already, his dignity would not stand confessing to the disgraceful, thorough depths to which he had lost himself to fantasies of Sherlock.)

Together, Mycroft and Sherlock had dressed in the same room, eaten breakfast, and shared a car ride as Mycroft, who was being driven to work, ferried Sherlock to his flat. At the time, Mycroft, still without the benefit of long and careful reflection, had been exuberant, gratified that they were becoming so close and so quickly. While they did not speak much once they’d left Mycroft’s house, as they had not yet discussed how they would speak to each other in the outside world, which was sure to be a long discussion for another day, there was a warm, welcome feeling that came with being near Sherlock without needing to affect arrogance or distance. It was enough to sit next to him, and perhaps touch one of the curls of his dark hair, and see a soft smile on his adult brother’s face.

However, once Sherlock had gone back to his flat, and Mycroft had gone to his work, and the day passed, Mycroft started to realize the error they had made.

They had not been in their right minds, either of them. After a truly long period of self-denial on Mycroft’s part, and all the confusion of reprogrammed memories on Sherlock’s, it was understandable that, when at last free to bare their hearts, they would get carried away. Now that he was away from the temptation of his brother, and was no longer dazed by the feeling of Sherlock in his arms again, Mycroft saw that this was not a time for celebration.

The sorry truth was that he had finally lost control of himself. It had only been a matter of time, really, and the recent ordeal at Sherrinford had merely ensured the mistake that Mycroft had always been bound to make. More than once, Mycroft had wondered how he had kept himself from revealing his feelings for Sherlock. He had known since childhood of his own incredible attachment to his younger brother, and yet Mycroft had somehow managed to keep his feelings secret all these years, even after the age when his sentimental attachment to Sherlock became mixed with an alarming physical attraction. By his own reckoning, he should have made some small blunder eventually. It was a matter of probability. Now that time had finally come.

And Mycroft would pay the consequences. Certainly he never thought that Sherlock would return any of his feelings as an adult, and so at first that came as a happy surprise, but that was not so fortunate after all, because, for a night in bed with his brother (plus a shower and breakfast, which he could consider bonuses), he could lose Sherlock entirely.

Brothers could not be lovers. Despite Sherlock’s conviction that they were not harming anyone, doubt continued to nag in Mycroft’s stomach, telling him that what they had done was horribly wrong. He knew it was shocking, enough that their own shame could poison their happiness from within, and that the affair would soil their names in the eyes of family and friends if they were discovered. And on a more practical note, there were the concrete difficulties of a taboo relationship to be considered. They would always need to act as merely brothers in front of everyone else. Mycroft was accustomed to secrets, as both his professional and personal lives were built on them, but wouldn’t Sherlock come to resent that?

Yet, how terribly exquisite it had been, to admit his love to Sherlock, and not to be ridiculed or shunned, but indeed, to be loved in return! Dreams and fantasies that had accompanied him down the decades were within reach. He felt as if he had seen the first pages of a fantastic novel shimmer into existence before him, and was now required by duty to shut the book and return it to its dusty shelf, when all he could think of was seeing the rest brought to life. He wanted to spend countless more evenings with Sherlock, talking to him and sharing everything with him, waking up by his side and seeing him smile with eager energy for what the day was to bring. No, Mycroft could not give up what he had spent his life yearning for.

Torn by his desires and doubts, Mycroft had gone to bed with a troubled heart the night that had followed their morning together. Sherlock had texted him, asking if he would be free, but Mycroft told him that, regretfully, no, he had pressing work that required all his attention that night, and probably the following day as well.

The only pressing work he had was to lie alone in his bed, the same bed where he had felt Sherlock sleeping peacefully on his chest. In the end, Mycroft moved to his projector room, where he watched the old footage of Sherlock and Mycroft as innocent children. It was comforting to know that, at the very least, Sherlock remembered the times when Mycroft had helped him feel better. Though the troubling parts of his past that had been recalled to his mind, Sherlock could now also call upon those times when he had crawled into his brother’s arms and found some peace. Perhaps he could call upon those memories again when was in trouble. That reassuring thought was what brought Mycroft back to bed and sleep.

Fortunately, a significant issue did arise regarding import policy the next day, and Mycroft was distracted until the night. But then, it all flooded back, and profoundly. Tormented by the knowledge of what Sherlock tasted like in his mouth and what Sherlock sounded like in bed, Mycroft had tossed in the sheets, chasing sleep in vain. He had the idea of bringing mind-Sherlock to action once more. It would be an even more faithful copy of the real Sherlock, since Mycroft was armed with his new tantalizing and intimate information.

Closing his eyes and peering down the halls of his mind, he had nearly done it, and yet, he couldn’t summon the Sherlock of his mind palace, not for this purpose. If he were contemplating a point of policy or dealing with an international crisis, he might call upon that figure of his mind palace to challenge him to come up with the ideal solution, but where personal matters were concerned, mind-Sherlock could not be called upon now. Mycroft couldn’t settle for a fake, now that he knew the soul-deep pleasure of sharing intimacy with Sherlock. He’d hinted to Sherlock as much, that he couldn’t go back to fantasies now that Sherlock had ruined him, though Sherlock probably didn’t know the entire meaning of that statement.

Before this week, nobody had ever felt as good as the Sherlock in his mind palace. But _that_ Sherlock had never come close to how the real one had felt on that astonishing morning they had shared together.

Two nights had now passed since the night they had fallen asleep in the same bed. Through text messages, Sherlock had asked once more to see Mycroft, and this time Mycroft had acquiesced. His head had cleared enough since their last enthralling encounter. Desires and doubts continued their war, yet he knew that, at the very least, he needed to discuss the risks of this relationship with Sherlock.

Above all, he needed to make sure that Sherlock knew he was under no obligation. At any time, he was free to revert their relationship to what it had once been, the whole matter forgotten (again), and Mycroft would hold no grudge against him. Thus, at any time, Sherlock would be able to free himself from shame or danger. This idea eased some of Mycroft’s fears somewhat.

Mycroft had not been enthusiastic about having this solemn discussion, however, nor was his head as clear as it could have been, hence the long walk from Pall Mall to Baker Street. He was grateful that the walk had settled his nerves to a modest extent, though not completely.

Upon reaching Sherlock’s street, Mycroft entered the familiar building, finding the door unlocked. He automatically adjusted the askew knocker on the door as he passed through.

Climbing the stairs up to Sherlock’s flat, Mycroft opened the door, and saw John, putting on his coat, and Sherlock, crossed-legged in his armchair, his eyes fixed on the laptop on his lap.

“Hey, Mycroft,” John greeted him, while Sherlock didn’t stir at all.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft replied, placing his umbrella by the door. He turned to Sherlock, and he saw at once that Sherlock didn’t intend to exchange pleasantries. Hoping that he understood this cue correctly, Mycroft admonished, “It’s considered polite to greet one’s guests.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock remarked, his gaze continually on his laptop screen.

“Right, well,” John said, glancing between the two brothers, “you sure you two can get along well enough to talk through a case without me?”

Mycroft could not say definitively what this meant, but in any case, Sherlock answered for them both. “We’ll be fine. We shouldn’t have more than a few ideas to discuss, and judging from the slightly elevated rate in his breathing, and the fact that I did not hear a car pull up to our building, Mycroft walked here, a feat I wouldn’t have thought him capable of. It must mean this is fairly free day for him, and he is in exceptionally energetic mood. Really, fortune bodes well when my brother can manage to pull himself out of a chair and put his legs to use. I wonder if they mentioned it in those silly horoscopes. Catch anything about Jupiter moving out of his orbit, John?”

Clearing his throat, Mycroft uttered, “That’s quite enough, Sherlock. John,” he said, turning to the man who was trying to hide a smirk after Sherlock’s comments, “give my best to Rosie.”

John blinked, confused. “How did you know I was going to see Rosie?”

“Well, she’s not here, evidently. And where else would you need to scurry off to, while Sherlock is contemplating a case? A baby in need of attention could only be ignored for the sake of another baby in more credible need of attention.”

Sherlock grunted in annoyance at this statement.

“One of your friends,” Mycroft continued, “is looking after her at the moment, I gather. Probably either Inspector Lestrade or Miss Hooper, most probably Lestrade.”

“What makes you think Lestrade?”

“You said that you were ‘going to see’ your daughter, which suggests you will be staying where she is now for some time, rather than simply picking her up. This suggests you want to spend some time with the infant’s caretaker and, while you are undoubtedly on terms of friendship with Miss Hooper, you seem to have a greater camaraderie with Lestrade.”

“Oh. Yeah, I am going to Greg’s place. Well, it looks like you’re in good form for case-solving. I’ll let you both to it. Try to be civil, you two, if you can?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

“I’m always civil,” Sherlock remarked.

Wisely, John left without arguing that last point, and closed the door behind him. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock made a sound as they listened to his footsteps moving down the stairs and at last he exited the building.

At that moment, Sherlock was on Mycroft in a second. To the older brother’s surprise, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and started kissing him along his heck.

Mycroft had been obliged to perform many difficult tasks in his life, but few had been harder than pushing Sherlock away just then. It had to be done, however, before Mycroft could lose himself again to the searing force of his long-denied love for his brother.

With wide eyes, Sherlock stared at him, confused. “What? Was that wrong?”

Seeing his wide-eyed little brother so puzzled and crushed, Mycroft had even more evidence that Sherlock was not very experienced with relationships of this type.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Sherlock,” Mycroft reassured him. “But I need to talk to you.”

“About what? There isn’t actually a case, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just said that to John.”

“No, there’s something else we should discuss.”

“Fine. But you won’t kiss me first, brother dear?”

That request, startling and offensive to the rules of their society, jarred Mycroft and made him glance with concern towards thin walls. “Keep your voice down, please.”

“Oh, is that the concern? Nobody will overhear us. Mrs. Hudson is out. She’s visiting a sister or something.” A mischievous light glittered in Sherlock’s eyes. “We can make as much noise as we like.”

“Sherlock, please, wait. We do need to talk first. Might we sit down?”

Looking uncertain, Sherlock nonetheless took his customary armchair, while Mycroft gingerly took the one opposite.

Clasping his hands and leaning forward, Mycroft began, “We need to think carefully about what we’re doing, Sherlock.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock muttered, more exasperated than anything. “You’re still afraid what we’re doing is wrong. Tedious! We’ve gone over this already.”

“We might have been too hasty, caught up in emotions as we were. You must admit we have not discussed the issue as thoroughly as we could have done.”

“What’s left to discuss? I want you, you want me, and that’s all that matters.”

“You might not always feel that way. Everywhere you turn, you’ll be reminded of what siblings are meant to be, and what they aren’t, and sooner or later, you may decide that you were right to forget. I won’t pretend that you can’t find a way to do that once more, if you wished to.”

Sherlock grunted with defiance. “I think not.”

“To take another point into consideration, the secrecy that we would require, while it may seem exciting at first, may become draining with time. Secrets are, to me, a familiar matter. For the sake of my work, I have organized strategies that only I may ever know, and my decisions have borne consequences that I must carry alone. But I would carry a thousand more secrets if it kept a single one from burdening you. Perhaps you don’t see it right now, but you will go through life seeing others love as it should be done, and knowing all the while that you are in the wrong, in the shameful shadows that would be our home.”

“Are you quite done?” Sherlock huffed impatiently, and stared at the ceiling. “You’re wasting your time. Really, if you’re trying to break up with me, be more direct about it.”

“No, I couldn’t do that, even if I should,” Mycroft said. “Trying as I have done to help keep your memories modified, I haven’t had many chances to tell you what I truly think of you. Let me tell you now. You are brave and clever, Sherlock. You are beautiful, and I could not imagine who, having become so close to you, could give you up.”

Sherlock had opened his mouth to argue with the first sentence, though the rest of it left him nearly speechless. “Oh,” he breathed. “You think I’m clever?”

“Of course I do.” Mycroft replied earnestly, sorry that he had ever needed to hide his admiration. “I knew you were a bright boy from the first. I could mention the cases in which you found a solution that eluded me, yet, despite what we told John, this is not a time for talk of cases. Suffice it to say that you have defeated criminals whom I could do nothing against. We may also look at your circle of friends, and see the evidence of an emotional intelligence which doubtlessly exceeds mine.”

“Oh.” Sherlock seemed dazed. “And beautiful, you said?”

This question was almost absurd, coming from the man who had figured so prominently in Mycroft’s fantasies. “To put it mildly,” Mycroft said. He would have liked to continue sharing what he truly felt about his brother, especially when it so clearly affected Sherlock, yet he’d already resolved not to let himself fall under Sherlock’s spell, at least not before they finished this talk. “In any case, I told you before that it is beyond my power to push you away. I am not attempting to break up with you. I merely want you to know that you will never be obliged to maintain whatever happens between us. In other words, I am not demanding a committed relationship from you.”

Something about this shook Sherlock from his daze, and he peered intently at Mycroft. “So you think we should keep it casual? I don’t believe you want something as loose as that. It didn’t seem to me that you only wanted a tussle in the sheets now and then. Planning to commit yourself to someone else?”

Turning ruefully towards the floor, Mycroft whispered, “There is no one for me but you.”

“And I want you! So what’s the problem? The years of strain between us are all that give me pause, and even they only drive me to do as much with you as I possibly can now that my vision of you is no longer clouded.”

Mycroft sighed. “We haven’t yet touched upon the most dire concern of all. There are laws, Sherlock.”

“Pfft, laws!” Sherlock scoffed.

“It is a serious matter, Sherlock. The law might have tolerated us if we had merely lied in bed together, and even, in our excited states, disoriented by recent stressful events perhaps, offered one another an intimate hand, but I doomed us both.” Mycroft swallowed and turned away. “I had you in my mouth, Sherlock.”

“It was glorious.”

“It was a criminal offence.”

“Hmph! Who cares?”

Knowing too well what the consequences could be, Mycroft wished he were holding onto his umbrella, so that he could brace himself with something. “Concerning consensual sex with an adult relative,” he intoned, as perfunctorily as he could, “a person guilty of same is liable—on summary conviction, to imprisonment for a term not exceeding 6 months or a fine not exceeding the statutory maximum or both; —on conviction on indictment, to imprisonment for a term not exceeding 2 years.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Sherlock groused. “You sound like a text-to-speech device. No doubt you’ve been staring at the statutes, or, no, I think you must have memorized them long ago. In that case, you’ve cluttered up your brain attic with rubbish. Magistrates ought to be too busy with real criminals to bother with us. What’s the statutory maximum anyway, five thousand pounds? Well, we can find the money somewhere.”

“This is not a matter for jokes. If we were spared from fines and _imprisonment_ , there would still be the shame of social banishment. Our parents would renounce us. Your friends would scorn you, and my colleagues would see me gone in a moment.”

“We won’t be found out.”

“You can’t be certain. Don’t you understand the grave risks we are taking?”

Folding his arms, Sherlock seemed to give the issue a few moments of serious thought. “Mycroft, I do understand. I know that we are taking a risk.”

“A risk that cannot be overstated. Someday, if suspicions arise, the danger may become more apparent, and you may want to cut off all ties with me.”

“So you insist that this relationship should not be considered a committed one?”

“Yes, Sherlock. For the sake of your peace of mind and your safety, I insist that you not consider yourself under any obligation to me.”

There were some additional moments of serious thought, and then Sherlock nodded. “Well, fine. Call it that if you like. Good, is that it?”

Taken aback by this sudden ready consent, Mycroft hesitated. “You understand that you are at liberty to end this relationship at any time?”

“Yes, it’s all settled. I agree to your terms.”

Rising from his seat, Sherlock approached Mycroft and leaned over him, moving so close that Mycroft could feel his own heart beat faster. With one hand, Sherlock gently touched his face.

“Now, can we get on with it?”

Mycroft stared at his brother. “W-we,” he started unsteadily, “we ought to determine how we to are conduct ourselves in public.”

“With our usual banter, as we always have, of course. Just as we did in front of John here.”

“And you had no trouble with that? I know you value your bond with John, and your other friendships as well. Won’t you mind deceiving your friends?”

“It’s hardly deceiving. Why shouldn’t I banter with my brother now and then? And what else we do is our own business. So, with all that nonsense out of the way,” Sherlock grinned, “why don’t you invite me onto your lap? Or will you keep me standing here?”

Mycroft would hardly have made the suggestion himself, but if it was what Sherlock wanted… “Oh, ah, sit on my lap then, please.”

With sparkling enthusiasm, Sherlock did so, grasping Mycroft’s shoulder as he settled his knees at either side of Mycroft’s thighs. “Much better.”

Feeling Sherlock make himself comfortable on his lap was almost enough to make Mycroft lose his power of speech. “S-Sherlock,” he stammered, searching frantically for something coherent to say, “a-are you comfortable?”

“Absolutely.” His hand stole towards Mycroft’s, landing lightly on his wrist. Mycroft understood perfectly what Sherlock was up to, but no amount of self-conscious embarrassment could induce his heart to calm itself. “Oh, am I the one making your pulse go like this? It’s a wonder I never heard a _thump-thump_ from across the room. Dear brother, how did you keep this from me for so long?”

Mycroft had often asked himself that same question. “It’s only natural that you wouldn’t look for it,” he reasoned, as best he could when his brother was on his lap and holding his hand. “Not after you had tried so hard to forget. Maybe that’s why I was so successful.”

“Far too successful,” Sherlock muttered. “For years, I thought you were aloof and composed. Nothing could affect you. I admired that in you.” He stroked Mycroft’s wrist, which made Mycroft moan softly. “But what an improvement this is!”

As he continued caressing Mycroft’s wrist, Sherlock leaned in and kissed along Mycroft’s neck. Helpless to his desires, Mycroft tilted his head back, and moaned again.

“How strange,” Sherlock murmured, between kisses, “to see the man of ice melt.” Slowly, he started to ground himself against Mycroft’s lap.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped, keeping his hips still with effort, “I hardly think John would care to know we were doing this on his chair.”

Sherlock moved back and smirked. At once, Mycroft knew that he had fallen into something of a trap. “Then, certainly,” Sherlock observed, “we ought to move to my bed.”

“Your bed,” Mycroft repeated, in awe. It had been an age since he had been welcomed to Sherlock’s childhood bed as a comforting older brother, and it was all the more incredible to be invited now as a lover. “Yes,” he said quietly, “if you think it best.”

“Excellent!” In a burst of excitement, Sherlock tugged Mycroft from the chair and led his awestruck brother to the bedroom at the end of the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

Though they were alone in the flat, John might return early. Preferring not to remark on this aloud, as it felt too much like admitting that what they were doing deserved to be kept secret, Mycroft silently closed the door behind them. Fortunately, Sherlock did not question him, nor did he make any inquiries when Mycroft closed the curtains of the room’s window, which was near the door. Sherlock was clever, and was probably aware of John’s imminent return as much as Mycroft was.

Sherlock’s bedroom, a place Mycroft had only seen a few times previously, was a combination of dark hues, simple furniture, and various souvenirs from past cases. The room was comfortably warm, although it was possible that being touched by Sherlock had altered Mycroft’s sense of temperature.

Adjacent to the window was a framed depiction of the periodic table, and next to the bed was a lamp, which Sherlock turned on. This granted the space a modest amount of light, giving the room a mixed feeling: here, they hid themselves away in disgrace, but to look at it another way, there was security and privacy in this room.

As he reached the side of the bed, Sherlock’s flush of eager energy that had driven him to lead Mycroft to the room suddenly wavered. Grasping anew onto Mycroft’s wrist, he stared at the bed, and then glanced back at his brother.

“Well,” said Sherlock, “aren’t you going to lie down, or something?”

Despite Mycroft’s concerns about what they were doing, those concerns were outweighed by the ancient determination in the depths of his being to look after his sweet little brother. “You seem uncertain,” he ventured sympathetically.

For a moment, Sherlock looked between Mycroft and the bed, sometimes breathing sharply through his nose as if preparing to speak, though no words came. Mycroft noticed that the grasp on his wrist was a little tighter now, as if Sherlock had become lost and was holding onto his only guide.

“Sherlock, I’m here for you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock admitted. “You know, don’t you? You’ve done this before. You know things that I’ve never learned.” Faintly, he added, “What you did for me that morning left no doubt as to that.”

Mycroft was sure he understood, though he had to check. “You mean, when I had the privilege of having you in my mouth?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, blushing. “As clear as your experience is to me, I know it is at least as evident to you what my position is. You have on occasion made jests to the effect that I have no experience with physical intimacy whatsoever.”

“Sherlock, I am sorry.”

“No, I understand you were playing a role. But the truth remains that you were correct.”

“No experience whatsoever?” Mycroft asked, diligently keeping any surprise or judgment out of his voice. It was not difficult, as he had already suspected this much.

This accepting tone seemed to help Sherlock along. “My experience amounts to little more than kissing—it has sometimes been useful on cases—and, if it matters, what I occasionally bother to do with my own hand.”

“May I infer, then, that nobody ever did for you what I did for you that morning?” Though Mycroft had long suspected this, it was nonetheless striking to know it for a fact.

“No, never. Put that concerned expression away! I don’t want pity.”

“I’m not pitying you, Sherlock. I only think I should have tried harder to make sure I wasn’t pushing you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have a flawless memory? I’m the one who started all this as I recall, and really, it would have been idiotic to tell you I was a virgin. The last thing I needed to give you was another reason to turn me away from your bed. I stand by my decision. It was obviously a good one. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and you are now aware you don’t need to hold out on me.”

“I see. And as you’ve called yourself a virgin, may I also infer you’ve never experienced other forms of sex, either?”

Sherlock blushed a brighter pink. “I never will, if we continue to stand here. Are all these questions really necessary?”

“Yes, Sherlock, and it was my mistake not to ask them from the start.”

“I’ve shown you that I’m ready for this. I’m ready for all of it. You’re not going to hold out on me now, are you? Mycroft, you know how to do this. So do it. Push me onto the bed. Take off my clothes and have your way with me. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Stunned, Mycroft asked, “Is that how you would like it to go?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cried impatiently. “Didn’t I make that clear?”

Mycroft turned to the bed, his baby brother’s bed, and he faltered.

“Brother dear,” Sherlock whispered. He touched Mycroft’s face again, and their eyes met. “You’ve been waiting for this for years, and, though I was not consciously aware of it, so have I. You don’t need to restrain yourself anymore.”

“I don't know how can you be so brazen about this. We’re brothers, Sherlock.”

“We’re not just brothers,” Sherlock asserted. “We’re brothers and lovers, like we said before. Besides, we’ve agreed that I can end this if I ever feel it necessary. So there’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“That’s true,” Mycroft admitted. Having made that rule clear, Mycroft didn’t know what more he could do to ensure Sherlock’s comfort.

“You’re still having trouble, that much is apparent. I’ll give you an outline, then, and you, with your experience, can fill in the details.” Swiftly moving around Mycroft, Sherlock eased the jacket from Mycroft’s shoulders. “How does that sound?” He placed the jacket on the table with the lamp, and, from behind Mycroft, reached around to start on the waistcoat buttons.

As his beloved baby brother was starting to undress him, Mycroft could do little more than mumble his approval.

“We’ll get our clothes out of the way first,” Sherlock went on. “Not that I mind you in a suit. It’s a shame I haven’t let myself appreciate how you look in this attire, but there’ll be time for that later. As I was saying, we’ll get our clothes off, and I’ll get things going with a kiss. A long and good one. Imagine, Mycroft, me against you, no clothes, kissing you, rubbing myself against you.”

Mycroft groaned with longing. “Please, Sherlock…”

Sherlock, sounding encouraged, continued his work on Mycroft’s clothes. “You’ll feel just how ready I am, and then you’ll show me how to lie on the bed. On my back, perhaps, with my legs spread? Hmm, if that charming sound just now came from you, then I’d say you seem to approve. In any event, I’ll leave those details to you. So I’ll lie ready on the bed for you, and you, Mycroft, you’ll show me just how it’s done.”

“You mean…?”

Against Mycroft’s shoulder, Sherlock purred, “I’m empty without you. It’s an emptiness I was never aware of before all my memories returned. But it feels like I’ve wanted you for ages. I think all this time, deep down, some part of me knew that I wanted you to fill me.”

Captivated by Sherlock’s low voice, Mycroft burned to give Sherlock exactly what he wanted.

By this time, Mycroft’s upper garments were laid aside. Being half-naked near his extraordinary brother was a trial in itself, a shock to his scruples and a test of his self-confidence, yet it was sublime when Sherlock trailed his hand up and down Mycroft’s chest, playing with the hairs of his upper body.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, “the touch of your hands feels like nothing else.”

“You don’t say?” One of Sherlock’s hands slid down, and fell lightly onto the fabric that had expanded below the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers.

Desire surged through Mycroft like a jolt of electricity. “My God, Sherlock.”

“Very promising,” Sherlock remarked, “though we could get more done without the trousers. You can finish undressing yourself and I’ll do the same.”

“Wait a moment.”

“What?” Sherlock appeared apprehensive. “Having second thoughts again?”

“I was only thinking that we would need something.” It was astonishing to know what he was about to ask his little brother, though the question did need to be posed. “Do you own lubricant, Sherlock?””

“Oh. Yes, I suppose we would need that. There should be a bottle around. It’s for when I’ve needed to see to myself, you know.”

“There’s no need to explain yourself.”

“Hmm, I thought you’d like to hear about when I’ve satisfied myself with my hand?”

“Ah, well,” Mycroft swallowed, “let’s just find that bottle, shall we?”

Sherlock smirked, and moved across the room to search for the bottle in some drawers, while Mycroft wondered if he ought to wait before disrobing himself completely. It might be somewhat awkward to be bare when Sherlock remained fully clothed.

Fortunately, he had little time to worry over this question, since Sherlock quickly recovered the bottle. He placed it on the table and then undressed himself without further delay. Mycroft followed suit, and they both bared themselves to their briefs.

Though they had been naked together just a couple of days prior, that had only been once, and undressing even this far was not much less of a shock the second time. For years, they had kept their distance from each other, and mocked the other’s intelligence or weight or some silly thing. It was a considerable change to be undressed together in a dimly lit bedroom and feel the air thick with fondness and desire.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. “Remember, we agreed I would end this if anything was wrong, didn’t we?” He started grinding against Mycroft.

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft gasped, “so we did.”

“Then this is perfectly all right.” He kissed Mycroft; it turned out far more tender than Mycroft expected, not that he was at all disappointed. When he pulled back, Sherlock smiled. “Make it good, Mycroft. You’re my first lover.”

“Your first lover,” Mycroft echoed softly.

Just like it had been at university.

As a youth, Mycroft had thought his younger brother a pretty and charismatic child. The way one would appreciate a bright flower swaying in the wind, he had admired the cherubic boy with dark curls and an energetic bounce in his step. Once or twice Mycroft might have been envious when adults crooned over Sherlock’s cuteness, yet that was a paltry and passing feeling, utterly eclipsed by the pride Mycroft felt for his charming brother.

There were times, as Mycroft’s body matured, when he had found it necessary to see to strange new urges in the privacy of a bathroom with a locked door. On these occasions, the task had simply been a chore, and no image of Sherlock had sprouted in his mind.

Then came the historic period when Mycroft returned from university on holiday. By that time, their relationship had become strained, as Sherlock had reprogrammed his memories years before and now regarded Mycroft as arrogant and unfriendly. Mycroft had to encourage this view, in order to help Sherlock forget how close they had been as children.

(They had been too close. They had held each other and fallen asleep together. Sherlock, a small child then, had been confused and disturbed by these feelings that seemed wrong for brothers—not that he admitted this, but Mycroft had suspected it—so Sherlock had dumped their loving embraces from his mind along with the traumatic memories of Redbeard and Eurus. Mycroft, who had also been uneasy about the unusual bond between them, had thought he was right to do so.)

Thus, Mycroft had behaved aloof, and Sherlock didn’t say much to him. They exchanged a few mocking remarks, that was all. Mycroft had reminded himself that it was for the best. Nobody could argue that it was not normal for brothers to mock each other.

He’d pretended not to take too much notice of Sherlock, but in reality, it had been hard not to notice him. As he had been before, Sherlock was spectacularly curious about the world, and the energy with which he questioned everything around him was fascinating; however, there was something new that drew Mycroft’s attention. During Mycroft’s absence, Sherlock had grown taller, his voice had dropped, and his musculature had become more developed. Sherlock had climbed from childhood to physical maturity, all while Mycroft wasn’t around to see. The sudden vision of a taller, handsome, alluring Sherlock struck the unprepared university student like a meteor.

His body decided right away that it liked what it saw. The defiant vessel of Mycroft Holmes never consulted its controller on the issue, nor did it provide any time for Mycroft to adjust to this attraction. As soon as he had entered the family home—not the one that burned down, the one that came after that—and observed every beautiful feature of his baby brother fully grown, Mycroft’s heart accelerated, and he felt a deplorable twitch of interest in his lower body.

Later on, Mycroft would realize that there was no use in resisting, but in those days, he exerted all the concentration he could spare into fighting off the sensual fantasies that started to float into his mind. He believed the attraction was an inexplicable, fleeting phenomenon, which wouldn’t last beyond a day, or a week, or a month at most. Therefore, he spent the few weeks he had at home trying to avoid Sherlock, rebuking himself for his disgraceful feelings for his younger sibling, and wishing those feelings would vanish, or at least diminish with time.

His attraction persisted. He could hardly pull his gaze off Sherlock when they were in the same room, and, as they were living together in the same house with parents who valued family meals, this happened rather often. It was terrible to see Sherlock sitting there bored and unsuspecting, having no idea that his older brother was struggling against lascivious thoughts of him. Knowing that Sherlock had already endured so much emotional anguish as a child because of Mycroft’s close attachment to him made this new shame that much worse.

The worst moment, however, was not at mealtime. It came as Mycroft passed in the hallway, making an innocent journey from the sitting room to his bedroom. He noticed shadows playing across the wall on one side of the hallway, and glancing into the room opposite, he witnessed a manifestation of beauty and motion that would have been welcomed into any museum of art.

Wearing headphones, his eyes closed, Sherlock was rocking back and forth, moving to a tune that Mycroft could not hear. His body swayed gracefully and confidently. The fingers of his left hand made little motions as he flicked his right wrist, merging the movements of a violinist with those of a dancer. His curly hair was tussled attractively around the thick headphones, and his shirt and jeans clung to his body as he rocked his hips and turned his shoulders. He was smiling contentedly, which was an expression that Mycroft would have liked to see more on his brother. It became him very well, and completed the gorgeous, unattainable image he made.

Mycroft had turned around and headed back to the sitting room. He couldn’t trust himself to be alone with that image fresh in his memory. He had resolved not to let this unseemly attraction get the best of him, and he wouldn’t let this latest development overwhelm him. A respectable Holmes would absolutely not hide himself behind a closed door and satisfy himself while thinking of his little brother swaying his body and rocking his hips. It was out of the question.

He resisted giving in to his urges while he was at home. The shame that struck him at the thought of doing something so outrageous in the same building where his brother lived kept his impulses under control. Then, the time to return to university arrived, and once he found himself in his own secluded living space, in his private world, he thought of his brother’s voice, the voice of innocence and curiosity that had become deep and sensuous. Mycroft’s yearning became too strong to be denied any longer.

Dressed in his pyjamas, he crawled into bed in hopes of falling asleep, but instead he quivered with an ache that would not be reasoned with. He ached desperately to have Sherlock in his bed, in any way Sherlock would like. Without a doubt, Sherlock, as young as he was and being uninterested generally in bonding with other people, had never shared anyone’s bed before; Mycroft longed to gently introduce him to the joys he could experience as a matured adult, to make certain that Sherlock’s first paramour gave him the love and care he deserved.

Mycroft recalled the enchanting display of Sherlock’s dance, and with that vivid memory, aided by his memory training with the mind palace technique, his mind conjured its own version of Sherlock, one who remembered all the delights they had shared as children and was waiting for his dear older brother on Mycroft’s bed. In Mycroft’s imagination, this Sherlock was dressed exactly as he had been in his room, minus the headphones. He was tapping the denim over his knees nervously.

“Mycroft,” the Sherlock in his imagination had said, “I want you. I hardly know what I want, but I want you badly.”

“I’m here, Sherlock,” Mycroft imagined himself saying, in a comforting tone. “I’ll give you what you want.” He sat next to Sherlock on the bed. Like Sherlock, he was wearing typical day clothes, though his were somewhat more formal. “Lie back, and let me see to the rest.”

“This is my first time,” Sherlock mentioned shyly.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” Mycroft longed to spoil Sherlock with pleasure so that he never wanted anyone else. He found the jar he kept by his bed and placed it in easy reach.

In Mycroft’s mind palace, Sherlock had laid back on the bed, gazing at his older brother with admiration and trust. He let Mycroft lift his shirt off and raised his hips when Mycroft slid his jeans down his legs. A bulge was apparent in Sherlock’s briefs.

Mycroft had cherished the excitement written in Sherlock’s eyes and the anticipation evident in his body, and as Mycroft took off his own clothes, he hardly took his eyes away from Sherlock for an instant.

Completely undressed, Mycroft lied down next to Sherlock, and guided Sherlock’s hand to rest on himself. “Do you feel how hard I am for you, Sherlock?” he had asked.

In the fantasy, Sherlock had touched Mycroft with experimental strokes, interested and excited. In reality, Mycroft, pretending his hand was Sherlock’s, bucked hard against his bed, trying not to think about the burning sensation he felt in the corners of his eyes.

The Sherlock of his mind palace had ground himself against the bed. “I want you, Mycroft…”

“Patience, dear brother.” Mycroft, with Sherlock’s help, removed the last of Sherlock’s garments, and admired his brother in his entirety.

This required some creative work from his mind, since he had not possessed actual memories of a naked Sherlock to draw from. His mind used a combination of practical knowledge and sexual experiences he had had at university (liaisons he hadn’t cared much about). As a consequence, there was a kind of vagueness about the uncovered parts of Sherlock’s body, yet what his imagination created was more than sufficient. He only had to fool himself.

Reaching for the jar again, Mycroft slicked his fingers, and gradually prepared Sherlock, gently stretching his virgin brother.

In his mind, he had heard Sherlock moaning, pushing reflexively against Mycroft’s fingers. “Oh, Mycroft.”

“Good, just like that, Sherlock. You’re doing very well.”

Mycroft had taken his time envisioning what preparing his brother would be like, though his insistent desire could not wait forever. Eventually, he withdrew his hand. He placed a pillow under Sherlock’s rear, and guided his legs apart. Sherlock breathed faster, eager and nervous, all the time trusting in his older brother.

It’s only a fantasy, Mycroft had thought to himself, shaking in his university bed, alone with his hand, now oiled with what he’d hastily pulled from a nearby drawer. A couple of tears had fallen down his face, under the force of the awful shame he felt for longing for his young brother. Nonetheless, need pulsed powerfully through him, and Sherlock’s face was vivid in his mind. He ached to give Sherlock pleasure that the younger Holmes had never known before.

The fantasy continued. He grasped Sherlock’s hips and steadied them as he pushed himself into his brother.

Once again, what the mind palace provided him was just a sort of vague amalgam of his knowledge and experience, yet Mycroft was in no state of mind to criticize Sherlock’s heated cry or how he felt as he writhed under Mycroft. It was only possible to think about how sweet and beautiful his Sherlock was.

Unaccustomed to the intrusion in his body, Sherlock trembled.

Intending to soothe his brother, Mycroft caressed the curves of his rear, and spoke gently. “It’s all right, Sherlock. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel wonderful things. Trust me.”

Then Mycroft had eased a little deeper into Sherlock, and Sherlock arched from the bed, crying out with surprise and pleasure. “Oh! That feels good, Mycroft.”

Captivated by the sight and sound of him, Mycroft had pulled back, and thrust again.

In Mycroft’s mind, Sherlock, beautifully flushed, had moaned almost constantly from then, his tone becoming sharper with each push of Mycroft’s hips. This was a novel experience for Sherlock, and he was helpless to the pleasure that Mycroft gave to him. He was so overwhelmed that he soon reached his peak, which immediately brought Mycroft over the edge. It was an instant of bliss.

Floating away from his imagination and into the harsher world of reality, Mycroft had found his hand and pyjamas soiled, and there were dried tears on his face.

Taking a gentle and inexperienced Sherlock to bed, giving him his first experience of physical intimacy, was not worth the price, even in a fantasy. Especially since his brother was seven years his junior, a fact he’d been trying not to remind himself of. No, the guilt was definitely too immense. After that incident, Mycroft had resolved that, if he could not keep himself from fantasies, then at least he would resist imagining Sherlock in a submissive role.

In other fantasies he had sometimes succumbed to, in that same bed and in other places over the years, he pictured Sherlock as confident, commanding, and, most importantly, being the one to initiate any improper interactions between them. Mycroft yearned to take his sweet and innocent brother to bed, but his conscience, already stretching a point by allowing any fantasies of Sherlock, would not let him imagine that kind of scenario again.

Suddenly, Mycroft became aware that a voice was addressing him.

“What’s the matter, Mycroft?” It was Sherlock, the real one.

Blinking, Mycroft observed that he was standing with Sherlock’s arms around his waist. They were in the dimly lit bedroom in the Baker Street flat. Both of them were nearly naked.

Was what it Sherlock just said, before Mycroft’s momentary lapse?

_Make it good, Mycroft. You’re my first lover._

A war flared within Mycroft: he longed to give Sherlock everything he wanted, but he had told himself for such a long time that he could not be Sherlock’s first lover. As quickly as the war started, it was over, settled with a compromise that gave Mycroft the direction he needed to carry on.

“Sit on the bed, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his tone calm in spite of everything. He was determined to make this good for Sherlock.

Sherlock, pleased, sat on the bed, though his enthusiasm faltered when he noticed Mycroft drop to the side of the bed on his knees.

“What are you doing? Why aren’t you getting on the bed too?”

“No. I’m not ready for that, Sherlock.”

“What? Don’t be coy, I know you’ve done it before.”

“What I mean is that I’m not ready to do it with you. I’m afraid it’s too big a step and too quickly,” he explained, which was true, though he left out the part about his shameful conduct as a young adult. “But I will make it up to you.” Mycroft lightly touched the waistband of Sherlock’s briefs. “You would enjoy being in my mouth again, wouldn’t you?”

“Ah, well, of course, but this isn’t a matter of going slow for me, is it? We made an agreement. Just because I’ve no experience…”

“No, Sherlock. I’m not ready to have you the way you asked for. I am sorry. For now, this is the most I can do.” Mycroft brought his lips close to the fabric of Sherlock’s briefs and teased him with a lick that sent a pretty shudder through Sherlock. “But is this so bad?”

“This’ll do,” Sherlock groaned, an urgent sound of desire rather than satisfaction. “As long as you keep going.”

Spurred on by his brother’s desire, Mycroft pulled the garment in his way down Sherlock’s legs, and learned Sherlock’s taste for the second time.

“Ah, Mycroft.” Sherlock touched Mycroft’s hair. “That’s perfect.”

Glad that Sherlock was not disappointed, Mycroft inhaled a slow, relieved breath through his nose. He took Sherlock more deeply.

Sherlock gasped. “Now you’re just showing off,” he said, in a breaking voice. “Do you secretly do this for a living?”

Mycroft chuckled, and the vibrations of it sent more pretty shudders of pleasure through Sherlock.

Having done something like this only once before, Sherlock, though he was clearly trying, was not very adept at keeping his hips under control. It was striking how different his eager but uncontrolled movements were from those of the assertive Sherlock that Mycroft had often imagined.

Though he had not had as many liaisons as Sherlock seemed to believe, Mycroft had all the experience he needed. Sherlock’s inexperience was no trouble at all. Indeed, Mycroft enjoyed feeling the stutters of Sherlock’s hips and moving his head back and forth to accommodate Sherlock. Mycroft was touched that Sherlock, who was unfamiliar with this kind of activity, was trusting his big brother and relying on him.

Mycroft felt himself throbbing down low. Though he resisted, he was scorched with the need to lay his dear brother out on the bed and sink into him, to ease his ache in this real and tangible body before him and hear the cries of ecstasy that Sherlock really made when he was in the care of a knowledgeable lover. Nevertheless, Mycroft relished having Sherlock in his mouth again. Over the years, he had often imagined tasting Sherlock just like this, exciting him with little licks and letting his jaw drop so that he could satisfy Sherlock thoroughly.

“Brother!” Sherlock screamed, which was a lovely sound, though Mycroft hardly required the warning. He was glad to swallow what he could of what Sherlock gave him, taking the tangible evidence of this taboo pleasure down his throat, and stroking Sherlock’s hip to comfort him through his euphoria.

Mycroft stroked himself, and felt his peak approaching in no time at all. He knew he wasn’t a young adult anymore, yet given the way Sherlock’s presence lit a fire in his body, he might as well have been. The years of pining for Sherlock made him more responsive to the joy of tasting him rather than the opposite, and Mycroft finished in a rush, not even bothering to take his underpants off.

Breathing hard, Mycroft leaned against the bed, and listened to Sherlock breathe hard as well.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock was saying, as they both came back to lucidity, “I enjoyed myself.”

“I’m elated to hear that, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated sincerely.

“But I do want to know what kept you from, well, taking me in the classical fashion. Come on, we used to tell each other everything. Let’s be like that again. Please?”

They did used to tell each other everything, when they were very little. Those were dear memories to Mycroft, and it made him cheerful to think the two of them could be close as they were before. “All right, Sherlock. I’ll tell you. Though you might not like what I have to say.”

“I’d like to hear it anyway. I’ll understand.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Mycroft waited until his breathing became more even, using the respite to compose his emotions and remember the days when there had been no secrets between them. “I told you how, during one of those holidays when I came home from university, I found you had matured and become too beautiful for words. As I said then, I ached for you. I told you that when I was secure in the privacy of my university room, I thought of you, and pretended my hand was yours. I intimated that I wished to be your first sexual encounter, though I was vague in that regard. In fact, I imagined that I was the very first to, as you say, take you in the classical fashion.”

“I like this story so far,” Sherlock remarked, smirking, which was actually reassuring.

“I would never have guessed that someday you would feel that way, though still you wouldn’t have liked it then, if you had known. Needless to say, I was revolted at myself for having that kind of fantasy about you—having you, my little brother, under me. It felt too much like taking advantage of you, and I couldn’t tolerate that, even in my imagination. For that reason, I resolved not to imagine that type of scenario a second time. I’m not a saint, and I’ve told you that I gave in to temptation on other occasions, but I would not envision myself being so selfish while you were inexperienced and dependent on me. That decision continues to affect me, it seems.”

Mycroft’s courage, shaky from the start of his confession, had showed signs of failing towards the end of his speech. Fortunately, Sherlock gripped his hand, his touch one of sympathy and support. That was all Mycroft needed to persevere.

“Someday, Sherlock, I’ll be ready. You are an adult and we made that agreement, so I suppose I shouldn’t worry because of a fantasy I had long ago. Certainly, I wouldn’t wish to disappoint you.”

Sherlock grinned. “If swallowing me is your idea of disappointing me, then you can disappoint me for days.”

He laughed, and Mycroft lightly joined in, melted by the feeling that, the subject matter notwithstanding, they were laughing openly together, as if they’d never stopped being close.

They dressed, Sherlock providing Mycroft with some clean underclothing from his own store, and returned to the armchairs of the flat’s sitting room. They talked of when they could see each other again, though both were ready to snap into teasing banter at the first sound of steps coming up the stairs.

Sitting with Sherlock in the comfortable flat, Mycroft was happy. Although he was not at all proud of himself, it was nice to have finally confessed the truth about his misdeed at university. Mycroft had long ignored the truth when it came to his personal life—before everything changed after the incident at Sherrinford, in any case—and in his everyday work, truth was far from being a priority. Much of what he did required saying what others wanted to hear, phrasing facts to suit one opinion or another. Speaking honestly was a relief.

Though, he couldn’t tell the entire truth, of course, even now. He didn’t tell Sherlock about the intensity of the fantasy he had indulged in after seeing his beloved little brother as a handsome adult. The fact that he had utilized the power of memory techniques and the natural talent of his brain to envision having his brother under him in spectacular detail was not, Mycroft felt, necessary to mention. Nor did he allude to the habit he had formed from his university days of calling upon the Sherlock of his mind palace for disreputable reasons. Though Sherlock had been remarkably kind and understanding, doing much to close the distance that had kept them apart over the years, there could be no doubt that the knowledge of how thoroughly Mycroft had misused the power of the mind palace, treating himself whenever convenient to a scandalous version of Sherlock in his head, would give the genuine Sherlock pause.

Seeing the soft smile of his brother from the other seat, Mycroft knew it was unlikely that he would summon that other Sherlock again. Even if the real Sherlock chose to end this risky association, as he had every right to, and relations between them someday became cold and unfriendly again, Mycroft doubted he could satisfy himself with an illusion.

Their discussion moved to other topics, mostly Sherlock’s recent research, and Mycroft had the pleasure of watching his open and animated brother launch into a story about crime scene preservation. Mycroft remained nervous that they were becoming too close again and they both would regret it, yet Mycroft was clever enough to know that he ought to enjoy what he had while he had it. For now, he was happy.

Mycroft commented freely on Sherlock’s admirable attention to detail in his research, and Sherlock, gratified and cheerful, listened respectfully to Mycroft’s remarks. They chatted for a long time, not as bitter archenemies, but as they really were.


	3. Chapter 3

Lying back on a couch in Mycroft’s house, Sherlock wondered if he could live here. The taxi ride from Baker Street was boring and unnecessary; if he moved his place of residence, he could instead wake up here in Mycroft’s arms, an experience that was far less boring than a taxi ride. In fact, Sherlock would say that it was one of the least boring experiences London could offer.

About a month had passed since Sherlock had crept into Mycroft’s projector room and started the chain of events that led to them sharing a bed (as adults this time, and not only for sleep). Sherlock had no qualms about how it all began. He’d been thrilled to rediscover the truth about his bond with his brother, and to find that Mycroft’s feelings had never faded. For this first time since he was a child, Sherlock had fallen asleep in his brother’s arms, which had been comforting and nostalgic. Sherlock had been certain that he’d enjoy his dreams that night, and he was right.

Did he ever tell Mycroft? That first night, Sherlock had dreamed that they were children again, sitting by a tree somewhere near the old Musgrave Manor. At the beginning, Sherlock was scared, and he wanted to run away, but Mycroft was there for him, and it was bliss to be held to Mycroft’s chest and comforted. In the end, it was a peaceful and happy dream. Sherlock believed the dream was a re-enactment of one of the memories he’d previously altered, though he couldn’t be absolutely certain of much when dealing with his childhood memories. Perhaps he’d ask Mycroft about it someday.

The morning that followed that dream was magnificent. Even though on that occasion and throughout their other trysts some problems had arisen, due to their strained interactions in the past and the taboo nature of their current relationship, the fact remained that Sherlock was at last enjoying the emotional and physical intimacy with his brother that a forgotten part of him had always longed for.

So far, he’d managed to fall asleep with Mycroft just one other time after that first go. While a rendezvous during the day was not too difficult to arrange, overnight stays had to be kept to a minimum, as they did not want to make John suspicious. Of course, John, who had known his eccentric flatmate for years, was used to Sherlock disappearing in the night without warning and appearing without explanation the next morning or sometimes days later, but this had happened only occasionally, and John might become uneasy and inquisitive if Sherlock spent too many nights away.

As he thought of John, Sherlock knew that, though it would save him from some boring cab rides, he wasn’t going to be moving out of Baker Street anytime soon. Baker Street was where he and John worked and met their clients. Additionally, and perhaps more importantly, it was where he had come to know John, and Mrs. Hudson, and now Rosie. He enjoyed living with them. And what of Molly and Greg (who was now always Greg), who were far more likely to come to Sherlock and John’s flat than to Mycroft’s home? No, a move would not be ideal for Sherlock. While he would’ve liked to be able to wake up with Mycroft every morning, Baker Street was the hub of his work and of the family he had somehow found along the way. Baker Street was where he belonged.

There was another advantage to staying in the old flat: it served as an excellent cover. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock didn’t think that there was anything wrong with their relationship, and he thought the social and tangible laws regarding him and Mycroft were absurd, but he knew as well as his brother did that those laws had to be taken seriously. It wasn’t too uncommon for siblings to live together, yet if he moved in with Mycroft, the probability increased that someone would become suspicious. They were safer if they lived apart. Furthermore, now that John was residing once more in Baker Street, John could serve as their unwitting accomplice. As long as he was kept in the dark, he’d vouch for Sherlock anytime, saying that Sherlock and Mycroft could barely stand each other and wouldn’t sleep in the same house if they could help it, much less lie in the same bed.

As Mycroft had warned him in the beginning, there was nothing pleasant about misleading John and his other friends, but it was Sherlock’s best option. He wouldn’t expose his budding connection with Mycroft to unnecessary risk. He didn’t wish for either of them to lose their freedom or livelihood because of what they meant to each other, especially when he was already paying a price for his recovered memories of his brother.

Sherlock had remembered the truth about him and Mycroft because he had remembered the truth about Redbeard and the East Wind. He had to work through his traumatic memories, and though he believed he’d be better for it in the end, the process was neither quick nor easy. Looking through old photos of him and Victor had brought a few cathartic tears to his eye, and playing violin with Eurus was helping him understand the struggles and unfortunate actions of his complex sister, but he simply needed more time to really recover.

While Sherlock was musing on his memories, on good times and hard times, Mycroft stepped into the room, elegantly balancing a kettle and cups on a tray.

“How is your arm feeling, Sherlock?” Mycroft inquired, setting the tea down on the table.

Ah, the arm. Underneath his jacket and shirtsleeve, Sherlock’s left forearm was wrapped in a bandage.

“Fine,” he answered. He did feel fine. The pain medication had done its duty. The dose had been measured meticulously by Mycroft, so of course Sherlock was feeling fine.

(It had been John’s idea that someone other than Sherlock should measure out the medication, and nobody had disagreed. Sherlock didn’t plan to abuse substances again, not when life provided intriguing cases, interesting friends, and a fascinating brother; nonetheless, it was only prudent to keep someone with his history from being alone with painkillers.)

Gracefully, Mycroft poured Sherlock his tea. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

“I don’t need to talk about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve been injured on a case.”

“John told me,” Mycroft said mildly, sitting down next to Sherlock, “that you had a moment of difficulty yesterday. He mentioned a pool, I believe.”

“Then you already know what happened,” Sherlock retorted. “So what do we need to talk about?”

What Mycroft had delicately referred to was what happened on Sherlock’s recent case. He and John had caught a thief in the end, but when they confronted the criminal, Sherlock had become stiff at the sight of a pool, too distracted by an onslaught of emotion to defend himself as well as he could have with a clear head. The upshot was that he suffered a gash in his arm. John was there, fortunately, or else the thief would have escaped. However, this also meant that John had witnessed Sherlock’s moment of weakness.

“John observed that you had seen pools before, but never been so strongly affected by the sight of one. He mentioned that he was under the impression you might be struggling with the memories you have recovered, and expressed his hope that I might be able to help you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, wondering why John would think that. John should have still believed that the brothers were far from being great pals. “You didn’t tell him…?”

“No, of course not, but he’s aware that I know more about your struggle than anyone, except of course yourself. Having convinced him that I felt I owed you for not doing more to help you as a child, I promised him that I would do my best to help you now. Rest assured, I don’t feel that I owe you, but all the same, the promise I made to him is one that I intend to keep.”

Sherlock was touched by Mycroft’s considerate tone, which made his voice even more graceful and melodious than it already was. For years, Sherlock had thought his brother had an interesting voice. It was a sophisticated and composed voice, one fit to represent the British Government. Sherlock had once convinced himself that it was an arrogant and bothersome tone, but now he knew he had been deceiving itself. It was an entrancing and soothing sound.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk about it,” Mycroft was saying with that musical voice of his, pouring some tea for himself, “I’m here for you.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea. “I think I’m ready now.”

Mycroft waited patiently. He was eternally patient. That was one trait that Sherlock had never forgotten about his brother. Indeed, it was one of the little things that had always been fascinating about Mycroft, like his smart, well-tailored suit and his quick, observant eyes.

“John told you,” Sherlock opened, “that I froze when I saw the pool. It’s true. I remembered Victor’s disappearance, and how Eurus had said he was drowned, and how I had known deep down that she was speaking the truth. A haunting image came to me of my friend lost somewhere in dark waters.”

He paused to take a deep breath. Mycroft waited, still as patient as ever. “You’re doing very well, Sherlock,” he encouraged. “Take your time.”

“I’m fine now. Thinking of Victor, it occurred to me how deeply his loss had affected my life, even after I’d forgotten about him. For one, I thought of being fascinated by the case of Carl Powers—you remember me telling you about that case, don’t you? The police thought he’d drowned. They were wrong of course, but it was the drowning that had drawn my attention in the first place, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. There was that Baskerville case, too. There, it was the mention of a hound that caught my interest. Now I see it reminded me of the dog I thought I’d lost—more than that, it might have occurred to some part of me that both creatures were illusions.”

Sherlock took another sip of his tea, steadying himself. None of this was easy to discuss, though he felt some relief in sharing his thoughts.

“I suppose that when you heard about both those cases,” he said, glancing at the familiar quick eyes of his fascinating brother, “you realized at once what drew me to them.”

“Indeed, and I remember on both occasions using one or two trigger words to ascertain the condition of your memories. It hardly matters now, but I was concerned your trauma would come back to haunt you.”

“It seems you had good reason to be concerned, going by what happened yesterday. There’s something to be said for blissful ignorance. But I won’t go back to that. I’m ready to face my past.”

“You are very strong, Sherlock.”

“It’s worth it. I now remember the good times I had with Victor.” Sherlock smiled at his brother. “And the good times I had with you.”

Concerned, Mycroft asked, “That makes you happy?”

“What? Yes, of course! Why wouldn’t it?”

“I made you feel confused and ashamed.”

“Don’t blame yourself for that, Mycroft. Besides, I’m not confused or ashamed any longer.” Feeling the heat of the cup of his hands, Sherlock thought of those days, when Mycroft talked softly to him for hours and his big, warm arms supported Sherlock’s smaller body. “You took good care of me after the incident. If anything, I’m the one who deserves some blame. Instead of repaying you for your compassion, I pretended all of it never happened.”

“I never thought about repayment for a moment. You don’t owe me anything. Even if I was rather too enthusiastic about being your source of comfort,” Mycroft paused to clear his throat in a sheepish and endearing way, “nevertheless, I didn’t expect anything in return for helping you. Speaking of which, it’s time to change your bandage. Come along, I’ll do it for you.”

Blushing just a little, Mycroft rose from the sofa, and Sherlock followed him, liking the idea of Mycroft being rather too enthusiastic.

They made their way up the stairs, depositing their jackets in Mycroft’s bedroom before moving into the bathroom. Mycroft rolled up both sleeves, and Sherlock did so with his left. Next, Mycroft washed his hands carefully, and then he directed Sherlock to stand in front of the sink.

A vulnerable feeling came with having his bandage removed, and Sherlock remembered that for years, he hadn’t trusted Mycroft much, if at all. An old instinct told him not to let Mycroft near the wound, but an even older and more powerful instinct, one that told him that he could trust Mycroft with his life, had been set free. Sherlock knew now that he could rely on Mycroft, and that conviction was proven when Mycroft carefully finished removing the bandages from the arm and tenderly started cleaning the wound.

Pleasant feelings, which had come to him with those thoughts of his dependable brother, dissipated when Sherlock saw the wound. To him, that injury was an unpleasant reminder of the dangers he faced every day. Ordinarily, he found the challenges of his work exciting, but what if Sherlock had been up against someone more dangerous yesterday? He could have lost everything, after just one month of being reunited with Mycroft.

“Mycroft,” he said quietly.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No. Mycroft…”

“Are your memories troubling you again?”

“No, not the memories themselves. But they left me weak. Mycroft, this wound could have been worse. Just when everything is starting to be better than it’s ever been, now that I’m recovering from my past and I have friends and I have you, I could have lost it all. I can’t ignore how these memories are affecting me. I’m not making sense of them fast enough, and it’s making me careless. Maybe I shouldn’t keep working, but I need the cases! I need the brain-work.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “If you were any other person, I might suggest a break from work, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a break did you more harm than good. Cases are good for you. Whether or not you pursue cases is of course your choice, but remember that regardless of what you choose, you are not alone. John was with you, yesterday, and I’m never far. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Look at my arm, Mycroft! I made a mistake yesterday, and it could happen again. I can’t stop working cases. I just need to be better. I shouldn’t always rely on you or John.”

“Brother mine, we’re happy to help you, as are your other friends.” Finished with cleaning the injury, Mycroft wrapped a fresh bandage around Sherlock’s arm. “We’re all better as a team, don’t you think?”

“If I’d been more careful, you wouldn’t have to deal with bandaging an arm right now.”

“I’m glad to help, Sherlock.” Mycroft secured the bandage, and pulled Sherlock’s sleeve down. “You have nothing to feel bad about. It was inevitable that your memories would give you trouble, and it’s understandable if you’re feeling shaken, especially after this injury. You don’t have to worry about imposing on me. I welcome it.”

Once Mycroft finished cleaning up the sink, he turned to Sherlock, and kissed him on the cheek.

“You can depend on me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked; with Mycroft caring for him so well, he’d been so happy for a moment that it had stunned him. “Mycroft…”

“Yes?”

“Would you kiss me again?”

With a tender smile, Mycroft touched Sherlock’s shoulder and gave him another peck on the cheek. It was a supportive and reassuring gesture as the first kiss had been, but it wasn’t enough.

“Not like that,” Sherlock said quietly. “On the lips. It would help me feel better.”

“Oh.” Mycroft’s voice dropped a little. “If that’s what you need, brother mine, I’ll take care of you.” He slipped his hands into Sherlock’s hair, gently tilted Sherlock’s face, and kissed him.

It was a kiss like nothing Sherlock had ever experienced before. He’d put on a few pretty convincing kisses in his time for the sake of cases, and he had led some kisses with Mycroft and been gently kissed by his brother, but this was the first time Mycroft wholeheartedly led their kiss, and Mycroft knew just what he was doing. Everything about him was warm and easy and soothing, and Sherlock felt comfortable and safe. Mycroft deepened the kiss, and one of his hands drifted to the side of Sherlock’s jaw, stroking him lightly there. Sherlock whined softly, enjoying himself immensely.

Mycroft pulled back a little, ending their kiss, though he spoke closely to Sherlock’s lips. “I’ll take care of you,” he repeated, his voice now rougher as well as lower than usual.

It seemed to Sherlock that Mycroft’s voice was no less sophisticated or musical than it normally was. In fact, the low roughness became his elegant voice quite well. Sherlock wanted to hear more, especially since the words Mycroft spoke were so interesting. “Please, Mycroft, say that one more time.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Mycroft whispered, and the whispers were just as good as the rest of his speech. “Follow me, brother dear.”

With that, Mycroft took him by the right hand, and led Sherlock, who followed readily, to his bedroom. He tapped Sherlock lightly to direct him to sit on the bed, and started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.

“Is this all right, Sherlock? I want to make you feel so much better.”

“Oh, yes, definitely all right.” Sherlock was thrilled by the passion that flashed in Mycroft’s eyes, though it was more than a little surprising. Mycroft was still having trouble accepting that he was not taking advantage of Sherlock, and up to this point, he had normally waited for Sherlock to initiate. Sherlock had prepared himself for a long game, supposing at least a few more months might need to pass before he got Mycroft to realize he had nothing to be ashamed of, but perhaps Mycroft had overcome his worries already?

Mycroft guided Sherlock’s shirt off, being cautious with Sherlock’s left arm. “You’ll let me know if this arm starts to bother you, Sherlock?”

“Yes. It’s no problem now.”

“Good.” Slightly touching the new bandage, Mycroft leaned down and kissed the arm. “I’ll be very careful. I would hate to cause you any pain.”

“You take good care of me, Mycroft.”

“That’s all I want to do,” Mycroft murmured, helping Sherlock lie back on the bed. “What would you like most, Sherlock? What would make you feel better?”

Breathless, astonished by this confident and fearless side of his brother—so often seen in the days before Sherrinford but so rarely since—Sherlock said, “You know best, don’t you, big brother? I’m in your hands.”

“Oh, Sherlock, know that I don’t take that lightly. I want to comfort you, to fill you with so much joy that you could never be sad or afraid.” Mycroft leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for something, and he returned with a small bottle, which he held for Sherlock to see. It was clearly lubricant. “I’ll give you more pleasure that you’ve ever known before.”

This was too incredible. Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly in astonishment.

Mycroft, unsurprisingly, noticed. “Sherlock, brother mine, what’s wrong?”

Though Sherlock didn’t want to discourage his brother, he had to figure out what was going on. “You were hesitant to do this before,” he said uncertainly.

“To do…?” His words trailing off, Mycroft glanced at the bottle in his hand, and slowly, his eyes opened wider. “What… What am I doing?” His grip loosened suddenly, as if he’d been holding a hot coal, and the bottle fell quietly onto the bed. “What’s wrong with me?” he muttered, staring at his empty hand. “I was about to take advantage of you! What was I thinking?”

“I know exactly what you were thinking.” Sherlock was grinning—all had been illuminated at last.

In a flash, he’d connected the clues and made a crucial deduction: Mycroft had a weakness, and it should’ve been obvious from the start.

“Mycroft, I need you.” Lifting himself up on his elbow, Sherlock looked into his brother’s attractive, confused, helplessly longing face. “I need you to help me make sense of my memories. I need you to look after my arm, and to look after me every time I get in trouble. Mycroft, I came here for you, to seek healing and comfort from you. I need you to take care of me!”

There was a sharp gasp from his older brother, and Sherlock could see Mycroft’s gaze darken with desire. Delighted to see that his conclusion had been correct, Sherlock decided a little more encouragement couldn’t hurt.

“Nobody can understand me like you can, Mycroft. Nobody can console me like you can. Take me in your arms, please.” Lifting the bottle from the bed, Sherlock pressed it into his brother’s hand. “Hold onto me, and give me more pleasure than I’ve ever known before.”

“Oh Lord, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s hand latched tightly onto the bottle despite the hesitation in his voice. “I can’t help myself… I want to take care of you. I need to. It’s all I can think about.”

“Don’t fight it, Mycroft.” Thinking of that tempting story of Mycroft’s university fantasy, Sherlock used that knowledge to his advantage. “You told me you wanted to spoil me. Why shouldn't you? I’m your dear little brother, and I deserve the best. Only you can do that for me, Mycroft, so do it. Give me comfort like I wouldn’t believe. Spoil me rotten, so no one else could ever compare.”

“Oh, Sherlock…” Still too much hesitation lingered in Mycroft’s otherwise flawless voice.

“I understand what we’re doing, and I want it,” Sherlock assured his brother, again relying on what he had learned from Mycroft’s fantasy, this time to assuage Mycroft’s fears. “There’s no doubt about that. You’re not doing anything wrong. I need you to take care of me. I need my big brother. We both want this. So get a move on, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft breathed faster. “Brother dear… You’re sure of this?”

“Absolutely sure. Do what you’ve always wanted to do. Care for me as only you can.” Sherlock settled himself back on the bed. “You know best how to go about it, but I do have one request.”

As if he were handling something fragile, Mycroft lightly touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grasped Mycroft’s hand. “Can you hold me while you take care of me? I rather liked the idea of being on my back for you, but is there some way I could be in your arms?” In a tone soppier and weaker than was strictly necessary, though he really did mean every word, he murmured, “I would feel just so comforted and safe.”

It was almost possible to hear Mycroft’s self-restraint snap, or that was the impression Sherlock got as he heard his brother breathe deeply and felt Mycroft’s hot touch tighten just a little on his shoulder. “God, Sherlock, yes,” Mycroft agreed, almost choking on his desire, which was a perfectly charming sound.

Mycroft helped Sherlock undress the rest of the way, and then Mycroft swiftly took off his own clothes, leaving the garments with the jackets they had already discarded earlier. He guided Sherlock to lie on his front, Sherlock’s right arm under a pillow while his left rested at the side.

“Does your arm feel all right?” Mycroft asked, his voice rough.

“Yes, it’s fine,” Sherlock replied, a bit impatiently; he felt like he’d been waiting for this for years, and hadn’t he, really? “It’d feel even better if you did something interesting.”

He felt a warm, soothing palm move down his back, and remembered, with a rush of anticipation, that Mycroft was truly the one who had been waiting for years. Mycroft was the one who had longed for Sherlock all this time. Surely Mycroft wouldn’t wait much longer.

Thankfully, judging from the way Mycroft’s fingers twitched as they touched Sherlock’s rear, that seemed to be true.

“Sherlock, I’m going to stretch you with my fingers, first.” Though in the grip of powerful emotion, Mycroft nonetheless spoke with the coolness and care of an expert, someone in whose hands Sherlock could place himself without any fears or worries. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, good. I trust you, Mycroft. Please. I need you!”

Sherlock heard Mycroft fiddling with the bottle, and, finally, felt the wet, tender fingers of his brother push into him.

“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock groaned, falling into his pillow. “What a feeling!”

“Is this all right?”

“It’s strange, and magnificent,” Sherlock whispered, nearly driven delirious by this alone. “My brother’s preparing me. Do you see, Mycroft? Big brother’s preparing me! Isn’t this incredible? You must see how incredible this is!”

“Indeed I do,” Mycroft said reverently, “and it is incredible.” He slid his hand deeper, and he assuredly knew what he was doing; before long, his touch made Sherlock rock against the bed.

“Oh, Mycroft!” he cried.

This time it was Mycroft who groaned, and he continued to see to his task, in no hurry at all. Sherlock was tempted to beg Mycroft to pick up the pace, but he adored the feeling of Mycroft’s hand in himself, and he knew his meticulous brother wouldn’t be rushed.

Once Mycroft seemed satisfied enough with his work, he pulled away from Sherlock. As he looked back, Sherlock was able to see Mycroft slip his hand down his own body, to coat himself with some of the smooth substance. Sherlock watched avidly, so full of anticipation that the lightness of it could have lifted him from the ground.

“Is it normal, to use that stuff on both of us,” Sherlock said, with a smirk made of pure joy, “or are you being especially careful, because you’re my thorough, careful Mycroft, and you care so much about your little virgin brother?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped, and seemed to jerk without meaning to in his own hand, much to Sherlock’s delight. “Oh, I do care about you. So much.”

“I know.”

“We don’t have to do this. At any time, this can all stop.”

“I know that, too. Have you known me to keep my feelings to myself? As an adult, I mean. I’ll tell you if I don’t like what we’re doing.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“But I can assure you, brother dear, that that’s not likely! I’ll love it, assuming you get around to it someday. Of course, lazy big brothers can’t be rushed.”

That playful teasing, so much like their banter over the years and yet so different, made Mycroft smile. He lied down on his left side, placing his upper arm on a pillow and propping himself up with his elbow. He kept his left leg relaxed, and angled his right leg so that the knee was pointed at the ceiling and his foot was flat against the bed. In that exquisite pose, obviously aroused and impeccably elegant, he seemed to Sherlock like a stunning risqué painting.

“Impatient little brothers should learn to take their time,” Mycroft noted, “or else they’ll miss everything.”

Sherlock took another good look at this man who had been so important and yet unacknowledged all his life, at clever eyes and elegant arms that had often been in the younger Holmes’s sight but had not received the analysis they deserved, at a graceful and attractive body that had been hidden in plain sight… and he found he couldn’t argue.

Mycroft, reaching out with his right hand, guided Sherlock to lie beside him, with his head again on the pillow and his left bandaged arm lying comfortably in front of him. Mycroft lifted Sherlock’s right leg and hooked it back over his own angled knee, parting Sherlock’s legs like two sides of a book. Lastly, Mycroft eased Sherlock back, letting Sherlock rest some of his weight on him, and all of Sherlock’s backside came into contact with Mycroft’s front.

The intimacy of this position was a stunning revelation to Sherlock, who hadn’t imagined that he could lie with Mycroft this way. He’d always pictured this kind of coupling as strictly a top-and-bottom affair, yet now they were lying with each other, nearly on their backs and nearly on their sides, easily and comfortably, with Mycroft’s arm over Sherlock, and if it weren’t for Sherlock’s leg raised over Mycroft’s, it might look as if they were about to fall asleep.

Sherlock leaned back more against Mycroft, and felt him there, hot and heavy, so close. Part of Sherlock was nervous, since he’d never done this before. However, he was also so excited that he could hardly think.

“Mycroft,” he pleaded, “I need you.”

“I’m here for you, Sherlock.” Slowly, Mycroft stroked Sherlock’s leg, from his raised knee down his thigh.

“Oh, Mycroft, I feel so empty. Please, please…”

“Sherlock, I’m here. I’ll make this perfect for you.”

As his hand took a firmer hold of Sherlock’s thigh, Mycroft positioned himself just right, and gently slid home.

Sherlock keened, a sound powerful and strange to his own ears, the result of both heartfelt love and burning desire. Mycroft moved into him smoothly, supporting his weight, holding him, spreading him; Sherlock was dependent on Mycroft for comfort, and there was no one he would rather depend on.

“Mycroft, yes! Keep going, more!”

There was a rough, striking groan from behind. “Whatever you wish, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s hand returned to Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock was held close to his brother in a way that made him feel safe and cared for. Mycroft pushed into Sherlock a little deeper—

“Oh!” Sherlock cried, feeling a sudden dazzling sensation bursting from that spot. The fullness he now felt there was even more amazing than the touch of Mycroft’s fingers had been. “Mycroft!”

“Do you like that, Sherlock?” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s hair. “Does that feel nice?”

“Oh, yes, Mycroft…”

For a while, Mycroft stayed still, allowing Sherlock’s body to get used to this wondrous new feeling. “I’ll watch over you, Sherlock. I’ll take care of you and keep you safe. I promise.”

“Brother…”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

His arm around Sherlock as gentle and secure as ever, Mycroft eased back and then pushed forward again into Sherlock in a slow roll, filling Sherlock and touching him in that same spot.

Sherlock curved like a bowstring, his chest pushing forward while his head and hips moved automatically back against Mycroft, who grunted softly.

“Good boy,” he rumbled. He started thrusting more, though he remained careful and unhurried.

“Oh, Mycroft, more, more…”

“Shh,” Mycroft soothed him, “I’m tending to you, dear brother.”

Exhilarated, Sherlock gasped. “Don’t stop, please, don’t ever stop.”

Mycroft reached around Sherlock and clasped their hands together.

“Always, Sherlock, you can rely on me.”

Sherlock wanted to say the same in return; even in his daze, however, he remembered The Agreement, that detestable rule that he would not commit himself to Mycroft. But it was that rule that allowed Sherlock to be where he was now, in Mycroft’s arms; it was that rule that reassured Mycroft that Sherlock would end their association if he ever wished to. Without The Agreement, Mycroft would keep his distance, afraid of imposing on his brother.

Someday, Sherlock thought in a blissful haze, they wouldn’t need that rule anymore. Over time, he would show Mycroft that he would never want this to end. They would become closer, less inhibited around each other, and Mycroft would realize that it was natural for them to be together. When that time came, the rule’s services would no longer be required, and he would enjoy giving Mycroft the same promise of devotion that his generous brother gave him.

All Sherlock could do for now, however, was luxuriate in Mycroft’s one-sided devotion, that incredible assurance that Mycroft would always love him no matter what Sherlock did.

Sherlock moaned. Not only did he have Mycroft’s love, but also that hot and rigid part of his brother inside him felt terrifically good. Mycroft was moving faster now, his thrusts becoming less measured and his grunts becoming harsher. All the same, Mycroft gave Sherlock nothing but comfort and care, making him feel good everywhere, caressing his chest and kissing his hair.

The splendid experience seemed to last for an eternity, until Sherlock felt Mycroft’s hand move downward, seeing to Sherlock with a firm grasp and a few flicks of his wrist. Sherlock couldn’t last a second more after that. He was finished, and he had the pleasure of feeling not only his own end but also that of Mycroft, who didn’t last much longer.

Immersed in peaceful bliss, Sherlock gradually recovered his breath, and he felt Mycroft do the same. Mycroft’s angled leg relaxed, and though Sherlock understood that it would be impractical to continue as they were, he still grunted with a bit of loss when Mycroft pulled back. Everything was just fine though, because Mycroft’s arm was around him and they continued to lie together.

“Are you all right?” asked Mycroft, sounding dazed.

“You could say that,” Sherlock chuckled, feeling utterly euphoric, “but I’d say I’ve never been better! That was Comfort was a capital C.”

“Your arm is well?”

“Absolutely. The arm feels as good as every other part of me does. I feel like nothing can hurt me.”

“That makes me happier than I can say.” Mycroft said, though his tone was not as cheerful as Sherlock’s. He turned his face into Sherlock’s curly hair. “If you do ever come to resent me for what I’ve done here, Sherlock, you can forget we did this, but please remember that much at least. Remember the good feelings you had.”

“That won’t be a concern. I won’t want to forget this.”

“I hope you are right. I’ve tried to prepare myself for the possibility, but it wouldn’t be easy to lose you.”

Something about those words touched one of Sherlock’s memories, one of the relatively more recent ones. “You meant what you said, didn’t you? When you said that my loss would break your heart.”

Although Sherlock hadn’t given the context for that quote, Mycroft apparently knew instantly what conversation Sherlock was referring to. “Oh, that. You can’t hold me accountable for what I said then. You drugged my drink, if you recall.”

“But you meant it.”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Sherlock. I meant it.”

Touched, Sherlock clutched Mycroft’s hand more tightly.

They stayed like that for a while longer, resting. Eventually, Mycroft reached for some tissues on the table near the bed, and used them to clean himself and Sherlock.

“Give me my pyjamas,” Sherlock directed, referring to the new pair Mycroft had recently bought, solely for Sherlock’s use when he was in Mycroft’s house. “I want to sleep.”

“Is that wise? You've already been here a long time today.”

“Don’t worry about raising suspicions.” With a nod of thanks, Sherlock received the clothes he had asked for from his brother. “I’ll tell John I was doing something undercover somewhere. I’ll say I can’t tell him about it until I’ve finished investigating.”

“Won’t he expect you to finish eventually? What will you tell him when he asks again?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll say there’s nothing noteworthy to report. It was one of my unfortunate failures. They do happen sometimes,” he stated nonchalantly, pulling on his sleepwear. “You know, sometimes I think I’d be better off living here. I wouldn’t have to come up with these stories if I lived with you.”

Mycroft, who was also changing clothes, shook his head. “It would involve too much risk. Questions would be raised if those who’ve known us and seen us bicker for years suddenly observed us moving in together.”

“I know. Someone might become suspicious. And anyway, John is a great cover. He would never let anyone think that you and I were up to any funny business.”

“But you also like living with John too, don’t you? You consider John—and Rosie, not to mention your other friends—like family, and you’re physically closer to them in Baker Street.” It wasn't a shock that Mycroft had reached this conclusion, as Sherlock had. Mycroft had a way of knowing everything. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay close to your friends. Sometimes, a family of friends can be better than the one nature provides.”

“Nature did right setting me up with you.”

“An interesting opinion. I would’ve thought we would be better off if we hadn’t been born brothers.”

“Rubbish! I’m your brother and lover and that’s just how we were meant to be. Though I chose you as much as I chose anyone. Too bad for you, you’re part of my family no matter how you look at it. In fact, you should come by more often when John is there,” Sherlock asserted eagerly, “or when Molly comes to say hi—she does that more now—or Greg, he has always done that. I think you and Mrs. Hudson would get along if you agreed not to break into the flat again. And there’s Rosie. With John needing all the help he can get, I’m practically a co-parent now, so it’d be a disservice to her not to let her come to know her Uncle Mycroft.”

While Sherlock had been speaking quickly and enthusiastically about this vision of the future, they had lied down in bed again, dressed for sleep. Mycroft had listened to his animated brother’s ideas, and now the older Holmes spoke.

“You’re forgetting, Sherlock: to them, I’m the arrogant and controlling brother. I can’t simply smile at your companions and greet them like an old friend.”

“That was true at first, but all the world is convinced that you’ve softened over the years. Besides, I’m not saying you ought to come over and kiss me in front of everyone. I remember our talk about secrecy, and I still don’t regret anything. But I’d like you to be part of my life, not just something secret, removed from everything else. It shouldn’t look too suspicious if you simply spent a little more time at the flat.”

“If I became involved in other parts of your life, you’d find it harder to sever relations with me, if ever you wished to. Our agreement—”

“I remember,” Sherlock muttered. He didn’t need to be reminded of The Agreement. “It won’t be a problem. Just consider what I’ve said, would you, Mycroft?”

“It does seem to mean a lot to you, and I’m flattered you’d want me to become more involved,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “I will think about it, Sherlock.”

That was enough for Sherlock, for now. Besides, they’d already made so much progress today that Sherlock couldn't complain.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured.

“Hmm? For what?”

“For making it worth the wait,” he purred. “I can still feel where you were inside me. Feels good.”

“Oh, ah, well…”

“We’ll do it again, won’t we? There will be times when I need you again, surely, when I’ll need your care. Will you be there to comfort me, Mycroft?”

Mycroft held Sherlock closer to him. “Oh, something strange happens to me when you say things like that.” He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to take care of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around, and saw a gentle, affectionate smile on his brother’s face.

“Even another kiss?” Sherlock asked, smirking.

Mycroft touched Sherlock’s face, and led him into a kiss as deep and beautiful as the one they’d shared earlier when Mycroft had given Sherlock a fresh bandage, though this kiss was less insistent and more peaceful. It made Sherlock’s mind, often restless, feel unbelievably serene.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gasped, writhing in his bed, “Oh, Mycroft!”

Mycroft wasn't there. In his own dark bedroom, Sherlock had woken alone in bed, and the emptiness of his bed had struck him fiercely. He’d pulled out that jar he had found useful in the past, and had coated his hand in the slick substance that he had used on those rare occasions when his body had nagged him for some attention. There was a time when it had been little more than undignified and inconvenient, but at this moment, as he tugged at himself with a certain proud face and sophisticated voice in his mind, Sherlock found this activity much improved.

It would have been better if Mycroft was there, but simply having Mycroft in his heart was enough to make his body burn with fire, a fire that had lain dormant for all those years when he’d lied to himself and pretended his brother was conceited and harsh. He could now feel all the heat igniting his body, like a spark set free in a forest, as he remembered Mycroft’s gentle touch, and the feeling of being pampered and spoiled in Mycroft’s arms.

A few months had passed since all this started. In the interval, Sherlock had joined Mycroft many times in bed, always with their hands on each other; sometimes Mycroft made Sherlock see stars with his mouth—Mycroft, much too selfless and careful, had reservations about trying the reverse, though Sherlock was keenly interested—and sometimes, when Sherlock asked for all the comfort his brother could give, he got Comfort with a capital C.

Sherlock moaned Mycroft’s name again, and pushed harder into his hand, imagining Mycroft behind him. He wondered if this aching desire was like what Mycroft had felt at university, when he was doing much as Sherlock was doing now, but thinking of Sherlock. Possibly that was the case, but it couldn’t be the same. Poor Mycroft hadn’t known his feelings were returned, as Sherlock at present had the privilege of knowing. Furthermore, Mycroft had suffered guilt and shame that did not impede the younger brother.

From the beginning, Sherlock had been determined that they would become closer, and that over time their love would become so natural that Mycroft would forget his apprehensions and no longer be bothered by the fact of their kinship. Because of their brotherhood, Mycroft, whom Sherlock had always known was a stickler for decency and propriety and all that nonsense, feared he was doing wrong by Sherlock. Mycroft continued to doubt that what they did together was all right.

Fortunately, progress was being made. When they were together in privacy, Mycroft was becoming more comfortable, gradually. Sherlock was confident that, someday, they wouldn’t any longer need that irritating rule, the one they’d agreed to during their second tryst, and then Sherlock would make it abundantly clear that he was as dedicated to Mycroft as Mycroft was to him.

Sherlock knew why the rule had to be established. The woefully decent and proper Holmes brother would have put an end to all the fun if he hadn’t been reassured that Sherlock did not feel any obligation to commit himself to Mycroft. Sherlock had agreed, though, in reality, he considered himself as committed as they come.

It was absurd to suppose that he wouldn’t be. His big brother was clever, generous, fascinating, thoughtful, elegant—he was a finely crafted signature on cream paper, a soft and velvety damask rose, a sweet and soothing song from a piano perfectly in tune.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered with longing, as he rolled into his hand.

The idea that Sherlock would want to break the bond between them, when he was working so hard to repair it, was ludicrous. Now that they had each other, it would take more than one of society’s little paternalistic rules to make Sherlock leave. Sherlock truly wanted to be in a committed relationship with his brother. Mycroft would accept that eventually.

With a grunt both from pleasure and amusement, Sherlock decided he ought to tell Mycroft all about what he was doing right now. That might help Mycroft accept things a bit faster. Sparing no details, he’d tell Mycroft all about how Mycroft had been the first thing to come to Sherlock’s mind when he woke up alone, and how Sherlock’s longing to be under his brother had driven him to push his hand down his sleepwear. Or better yet, he could call Mycroft and ask him for some inspiration. Mycroft, equipped with years of knowledge and experience, could describe an intriguing scenario over the phone, one that hadn’t occurred to Sherlock’s imagination. Sherlock had already learned a thing or two from Mycroft, though the older brother was still undoubtedly the expert when it came to physical intimacy.

Plus, Sherlock wouldn’t mind if Mycroft, while speaking to Sherlock on the phone about what they could do in bed together, stroked himself just as Sherlock did. No, Sherlock wouldn’t mind at all if Mycroft, while confidently directing his little brother, also satisfied himself and groaned his little brother’s name.

This thought undid Sherlock, and he would’ve cried Mycroft’s name if he could, but he didn’t want to take an unnecessary risk. It would be unfortunate were John to hear anything, and it also had to be considered that there was a small child on the premises. Therefore, Sherlock turned his face against a pillow, and gave himself away with only a muffled sound that would alert no one.

Thinking of how blissful it was to lie in Mycroft’s arms, Sherlock closed his eyes and took his time before getting up.

As he dressed, Sherlock looked at his healed arm, and he smiled. Since that incident when his recovered memories had affected him and his arm had been injured as a result, nothing similar had occurred. Memories that had once been traumatic perturbed Sherlock less and less, largely because of Mycroft’s support. With Mycroft’s help, Sherlock had healed in body and spirit. His dear brother took care of him.

Sherlock wished he could go see his brother, but Mycroft was out of town for work. Despite the transformation he’d undergone in Sherlock’s life from formidable adversary to gentle lover, Mycroft was nevertheless the powerful politician whom all the British Government relied upon. He had a job to do. Mycroft hadn’t been at liberty to say anything about where he was going or what he was going to do there. He promised that his task would not be dangerous, however, and that he would return as soon as he was able.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had a profession also. He had just finished a case, but his work was never really done. It was crucial to continuously pursue research, to be as informed as possible, and to make sure that the mind palace was stocked with useful information. Once he was presentable, clean and respectable enough in his typical clothes under his navy blue dressing gown, Sherlock bounded onto his chair in the sitting room with a book in hand. He did not meet John there, but it was early yet, so John was probably still asleep. Sherlock read for a while, taking time to eat in the interval.

Eventually, John entered the room.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he greeted. “I know you said you were going to play your violin, but Rosie is still asleep. Could you put it off ‘til later?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. Actually, he had forgotten about his plan to play the violin this morning, but now he certainly wouldn’t play it. He didn’t want to disturb Rosie.

“Thanks.” John sat down on his chair, and opened his laptop. “What are you reading?”

“A history of smuggling. An interesting topic, but unfortunately, too much of the book is concerned with presenting sensational and dramatic stories, rather than focusing on useful facts. In a way, it reminds me of your blog.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Why are you reading it, then?”

“It does include information on practical points, information which I am adding to my mind palace.”

“Ah. Good, keep it up,” John said, in his pleasant, friendly way.

Turning back to his book, Sherlock wished he didn’t need to hide the truth from his close friend.

The truth was that Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention to the book at all. He had been thinking that, as nice as it was to be here with John and Rosie, it would have been better if Mycroft were here, too.

Over time, Sherlock had become accustomed to the precautions that had to be taken in the kind of relationship he had with Mycroft. They acted as if nothing had changed in front of others, and left no written evidence anywhere in sight. Necessarily, he kept a close eye on his phone. Leaving the device somewhere John might find it and catch sight of a private text was a disaster waiting to happen. Phone conversations were also carefully regulated. Mycroft preferred to talk rather than text, though it was not feasible to have a personal conversation over the phone when John was sitting in the same room.

Secrecy wasn’t a new concept to Sherlock. He had gone undercover for cases before, had often acted in some role or other while in disguise, and had kept himself secret for years after the Reichenbach incident. However, this was a different matter altogether. He was near his friends, and yet had to keep a large aspect of his life from them. It didn’t help that Mycroft believed Sherlock might end their relationship at any time and so was reluctant to become friendly with Sherlock’s pals.

It annoyed Sherlock that he had struggled for years to connect with people, and now that he had both friends and a romantic relationship to speak of, he couldn’t speak of his Mycroft-related hopes or worries with anyone else who mattered. He couldn’t experience a relaxed conversation with both Mycroft and friends, nor could he simply see his handsome brother around the flat very much.

He didn’t feel differently than he had when Mycroft first warned him about the burden of secrecy. Though the strain of keeping his love life hidden was somewhat harder than he had expected, by no means was the difficulty going to change any decision Sherlock had made. Still, as long as they weren’t too indiscreet, he didn’t see why Mycroft couldn’t come over more often. Surely they would still bicker in front of others, but maybe they could make it a bit more playful, a bit friendlier. Yes, maybe Mycroft could become one of his friends.

Maybe…

“John,” Sherlock said, looking at one of his closest friends.

Things had been hard with John sometimes, particularly after Sherlock’s return after vanishing for two years, and never more so than after Mary’s death. John had been crushed, and his friendship with Sherlock had suffered. John had said harsh things, for example, and when he had physically taken his distress out on Sherlock in that morgue room during the case of the serial killer, it had been with an excessive violence. Sherlock had said afterwards that he understood, that John had lost his wife and was entitled, but John later apologized anyway. They had talked about it for a long time, and talked also of the general coolness that had arisen between them. Apologies were made on both sides, back then; and together they had worked through their problems. They had resolved to remain close friends, despite everything that had happened.

And Sherlock didn’t want to hide Mycroft from his old friend anymore.

“Yeah?” John raised his head from his laptop.

“You’re doing well with Rosie. It’s not easy to raise a child on your own.”

John was surprised, and then a solemn air settled over him. There was also gratitude in his features, however, as he nodded. “Thanks, Sherlock. I appreciate it.”

“But, you’re not really raising her alone, right? I do what I can, and Molly and Greg look after her sometimes, and Mrs. Hudson, obviously. There’s a saying, I believe, that it takes a village to raise a child. That’s also to your credit. You’ve helped bring together a village around her.”

“That means a lot, Sherlock. Now, what’s this all about? You wouldn’t be talking about this unless you had a good reason.”

“First, you agree that Rosie will grow up to be very clever? Well, every parent thinks their child is clever, but Rosie, being the daughter of yourself and Mary, who was one of the cleverest people I’ve had the privilege to know, can’t help but be intelligent. It’s only logical that you provide Rosie with the best teacher available, someone who will help her reach her potential.”

“Are you talking about yourself? You mean you’re going to teach her to be clever?”

“You flatter me,” Sherlock grinned. “And certainly, I’ll teach her a thing or two. But I was thinking of someone else. A person that, I must admit, is cleverer than I, for all his faults.”

“Really? You think there’s someone who’s smarter than you?”

Suddenly, the light of understanding gleamed in John’s eyes.

“You don’t mean…”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not? After all, he’s the one who taught me how to put my mind to use.”

“Mycroft? You think Rosie should spend more time with Mycroft? You’re actually suggesting that we should try to have your brother around here more?”

“It was merely an idea.”

“Look, Sherlock, I think I understand. You looked up to Mycroft for a long time, and it’s natural that you’d think he was a good teacher. It’s even open-minded of you, considering how you two don’t always get along. I know you’re thinking of what would be best for Rosie, and that’s great. But Mycroft’s not a great role model. Smart as can be, I agree, but not the warm, supportive type you want around children. You’ve complained before that he made fun of you for being slower than him when you were kids. Surely you don’t want someone like that teaching my daughter?”

John was a close friend, but it was horrible to hear him say those things about Mycroft—even if he’d heard them all from Sherlock to begin with. Well, that made it even more horrible. It wasn’t enough that Sherlock had made himself believe Mycroft was an arrogant and unkind brother. He’d made John believe it, too.

And now Sherlock still had to act like Mycroft was just a brother to him. He couldn’t show John what a marvel Mycroft really was. Frustrated, Sherlock simply grunted and tried to look interested in his book.

“It was merely,” Sherlock said again, slowly and far too bitterly, “an idea.”

“Sherlock? What’s going on? Did you and Mycroft have an argument or something?”

“Forget about it, John. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Rosie doesn't need to learn anything from Mycroft. No doubt I can be a better teacher for her than he ever was for me.” Trying to lighten the atmosphere, Sherlock joked, “You might be able to contribute a little, too. You’re not an idiot.”

“Thanks,” John said with a little smirk. That was a relief; John had believed him.

Sherlock returned to his book. Since he clearly couldn’t accomplish what he had hoped to by talking to John, he might as well try to learn something new about smuggling. Someday he might need some of this information, and if he did, he would need to step into his mind palace to find it. He couldn’t remember everything effortlessly and without the help of memory techniques. He wasn’t like Mycroft that way.

After Sherlock had been reading the book for a while, a text alert sounded from Sherlock’s pocket. He pulled out his phone, and saw that he had received a message from Mycroft.

 _I’m afraid I’ve let you down again, Sherlock_ , the simple and sad text read.

Alarmed, Sherlock responded quickly: _What’s wrong?_

 _It didn’t go well_ , Mycroft answered vaguely. _It’s all finished. I’ve just returned to England now, and there’s nothing more to be done. But I disappointed you and the country._

 _I will call you in five minutes_ , Sherlock texted.

Sherlock tossed his book aside and looked for his jacket. He put on his shoes, and checked that his wallet was in his pocket.

“Going somewhere?” John asked. “Need me to come along?”

“No, I’m just picking something up.” Sherlock didn’t bother elaborating his excuse any further. He didn’t want to waste time, and besides, he’d just be giving himself away. Only lies have detail.

Hurrying out the flat and down the steps, Sherlock spared a glance at the screen of his mobile.

Mycroft had replied: _Don’t trouble yourself. This is scarcely the first time I’ve made a mistake._

Sherlock rapidly entered a number into his phone. Raising the device to his ear, listening for the instant Mycroft answered, he waved for a cab to pick him up.

“Come on, Mycroft, pick up your phone,” Sherlock grumbled. “I know you prefer to talk, so you have no excuse. Pick up your damn phone.”

A taxi pulled up, and Sherlock climbed in, giving the driver his destination without preamble. As the car drove off, Sherlock heard an answering click.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said; his voice was slightly distorted as sounds are through even the best of phones, though Sherlock could nevertheless easily recognize the smooth and elegant voice of his older brother. “You didn’t have to call me.”

“I called you anyway. What happened?”

“Mistakes happened, as they sometimes do.” Mycroft sighed. “I can’t go into details, and there’s no reason for you to care anyway, but a certain conference did not have the outcome we wanted. We failed to reach certain agreements, with certain other powers. I should have been more persuasive.”

“It’s not all on your shoulders,” Sherlock argued. “You can’t possibly be the only person who had a hand in whatever this was about.” He thought of telling Mycroft that he wasn’t _really_ the whole government and that the country’s successes or failures didn’t actually rest on him alone, but Sherlock didn’t intend to be indiscreet in earshot of the taxi driver. Instead, Sherlock merely said, “I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“What is it that people say? ‘If a man does his best, what else is there?’ Well, there wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

“This is kind of you, Sherlock. But you can’t be certain of that.”

“Mycroft, you—”

“I shouldn't have sent you that text,” Mycroft said abruptly. “I don’t know what I was thinking. The last thing I ought to be doing is bothering you with my troubles, and as I said, I can’t tell you anything anyway. I’m sorry. Forget what I’ve said. I’ll get over it, Sherlock. Like I said, this is hardly the first time. Go back to your cases, or whatever it was that was occupying your attention before. That’s where your attention should be.”

“Wait—”

There were a few conclusive beeps, leaving no room for doubt that the call had been ended from the other side.

Sherlock didn’t try to call back, nor did he send his another text. It wouldn’t do any good. He simply let the cabbie take him to Mycroft’s home.

Mycroft had mentioned arriving in England, and probably hadn’t reached his home yet, though it was likely that he’d be there before long. And Sherlock had decided that, when Mycroft arrived, he would find Sherlock waiting for him, eager to comfort Mycroft after a hard work trip. Their whole lives, Mycroft had done so much to care for Sherlock. The least Sherlock could do was try to comfort Mycroft in this hour of need.

Yet, Sherlock, tapping his fingers against his phone, had a problem to consider: it was Mycroft who was the caring, compassionate brother, not Sherlock.

People rarely, if ever, said that Sherlock was a comforting person. He wasn’t good at consoling troubled clients, having always left that part of the business to John, and he was far more likely to annoy someone than to make them feel better. Though Sherlock would have liked to think that he could at least give Mycroft some comfort in bed, he feared even that would be difficult. While the two of them had been intimate for months, and Sherlock had certainly learned more in that time than he ever thought he would about what two adults could do together, he still felt he was only a beginner. He relied a great deal on his brother’s knowledge.

Sherlock doubted he could provide much comfort for his deserving brother, either with a sensitive word or a passionate embrace. Nonetheless, he had to try.

Wielding a key that had been in his possession for years, though he was using it a lot more nowadays, Sherlock helped himself into Mycroft’s house. He ascertained rapidly, from the gaps in the coat closet and a missing space where the umbrellas were kept, that Mycroft hadn’t returned yet. He would probably be home soon, and Sherlock merely had to wait.

In the meantime, Sherlock made himself at home. He took off his shoes and outer layers, and thought that it was pleasant to have this place where he and Mycroft could be at ease together. Contemplating this, Sherlock became conscious of an urge to watch the old footage of him and Mycroft as children again. It didn’t take long to head to the projector room and set up the footage.

After sitting in the chair there, he played the familiar footage. He smiled when he watched the scenes play, and grinned when little Sherlock jumped on little (though not _so_ little) Mycroft, giving him a big hug and making the older boy drop his book. The embrace clearly made Mycroft very happy.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, attentively watching the two children roll over the sand together. When he had watched this footage before, Sherlock’s eyes had been fixed on the older, somewhat chubby boy, who looked extremely interesting and big and soft, but on this occasion, Sherlock was more intrigued by the younger, dark-haired sprite. Now there was someone who knew how to comfort Mycroft! This little Sherlock clearly had no qualms about having a fun time with Mycroft and showering his big brother with affection. No, this Sherlock simply went for it, and his direct strategy seemed to work well.

The adult Sherlock determined that he would do well to follow the child’s example.

A car was now pulling up outside, judging from the sound coming from the front of the house.

Sherlock turned off the footage, and left the room. He reached the entrance of the house just as Mycroft was closing the front door behind himself.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft said, perplexed. “I discerned fresh tracks outside, and thought it might be you. But why are you here?”

“Welcome home, brother dear.” Taking a lesson from his younger self, Sherlock went for it. He jumped onto Mycroft with a hug.

Startled, Mycroft grunted and stumbled back a step.

Ah, the size difference between them was not what it had once been. Sherlock should have accounted for that. It wasn’t a problem, though. All he had to do was plant his feet firmly on the ground and readjust his embrace, preventing them from toppling over. Then he was free to hold Mycroft and press his face against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated, now a bit concerned, “what’s going on?”

“I came here for you,” Sherlock answered, his tone ardent despite being muffled against Mycroft’s jacket. “You’ve had a difficult time at work, and I’m here to be your loving, supportive partner. This is what loving, supportive partners do, don’t they?”

“Oh, I see,” muttered Mycroft. Not exactly the cheerful response Sherlock had hoped for. “Sherlock, you didn’t have to come here.”

“I came here anyway. I’m here to take care of you.” Raising his lips up to Mycroft’s neck, Sherlock lowered his voice, and murmured, “In any way you want me to.”

“What?” Mycroft said with unsteady breath. “Sherlock, what do you mean by that?”

“I think you know what I mean. It’s terrible knowing how tough my dear brother’s had it, and I want to make him feel better. Like he has done for me.” Sherlock started kissing Mycroft along his neck, already planning his way upward so he could kiss near Mycroft’s ear, which had never failed to produce splendid results before. “He’s made me feel so much better in his arms, in his bed. Can’t I do the same for him?”

“Oh. Well, but you don’t have to do that.”

Sherlock hooked his leg around Mycroft’s, and rubbed himself slowly against Mycroft’s trousers, enjoying the groan that burst from his brother. “Aren’t you starting to feel better already?” He kissed his way upward.

“Sherlock… Oh, Sherlock.” Quietly moaning, Mycroft tilted his head back. Admirable results, indeed!

“You’ve done so well taking care of me, so let me return the courtesy.”

“But you don’t owe me for what I’ve done for you.”

“Of course not, but I want to do this.”

“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Mycroft!”

At this brusque cry, Mycroft glanced back at Sherlock, amazed.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock repeated, more gently, “you won’t be taking advantage. Remember what we agreed. I’m not committed to you, so I can’t feel obliged to do anything for you.” Sherlock hated it, but The Agreement was nothing if not useful. “Now, I’d like to take care of you. May I?”

There was a hesitant silence.

Pulling back to an arm’s length away, Sherlock looked into Mycroft’s glittering eyes. “Let me, please.”

Something in Sherlock’s gaze must have had a strong effect, because Mycroft managed to agree, breathing harder than before. “All right. If you don’t mind it.”

Triumphant, Sherlock beamed, and guided his brother to the bedroom.

“You might be interested to know,” Sherlock said, as he led the way, “I thought of you when I touched myself in bed, early this morning.”

“A-ah,” Mycroft stammered, which was endearing.

They reached the bedroom. The sun was shining outside, but curtains took care of that, giving the room a comfortable dimness.

It was when they came to this bedroom that Sherlock first suspected that Mycroft might have had more on his mind than trouble at work. Sherlock didn’t doubt that there had been some error of that kind, but Mycroft was strangely quiet as they started to undress.

“I’m sorry for the bother about the conference,” Sherlock offered sympathetically. “Whatever it was.”

Mycroft’s attention seemed bashfully fixed on the clothes he was taking off, though he wasn’t standing as far away from Sherlock as he would have been months before. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“It doesn’t change my opinion of you. You’re still much too competent for your own good.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very kind of you.”

“But I think something else is bothering you, too.”

Sherlock could tell that Mycroft stiffened just a little at that remark. Unsurprisingly, Mycroft denied it. “No, that debacle has been quite enough to occupy me.”

“You said yourself that this is scarcely the first time things haven’t gone right. It’s affecting you more this time.”

“Perhaps I haven’t felt so free to express my anxieties to you before.”

“Hah! You still don’t. You hung up on the phone when I tried to offer you a morsel of sympathy.”

“Sherlock…”

“It all points to some other thing that’s troubling you.” His brain racing, Sherlock mentally looked over the words that Mycroft had texted to him and spoken to him over the phone, as if recalling a transcript from a witness for a case. “Yes, that would explain your cryptic opening. ‘I’ve let you down again, Sherlock’ was your first text, and looking back, what an odd way to start venting about a work problem! But what if it wasn’t just work that was on your mind? If I consider that you were already troubled by something else, probably by some other way you’ve supposedly let me down, then it becomes much clearer why you worded the text that way, and why you were so bothered by this mistake at work at all. Mistakes are so much harder when they happen one after another, aren’t they? You must be thinking that you made another mistake with me.”

“Of course I did,” Mycroft muttered.

“What are you talking about?”

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft placed his jacket on a table. By this point, they were both half-undressed, though their progress in that direction had come to a halt.

“I resisted for so long, Sherlock. All these years, I had feelings for you. I didn’t think any good could come of confessing, but I was sorely tempted to confess, all the same. I yearned to apologize, to atone at least a little. Frequently, I fought the urge to tell you all and to say sorry.”

Though his mind was still as active as ever, examining those years that Mycroft alluded to, imagining at what times Mycroft had been hiding a confession, Sherlock remained silent, eager to hear Mycroft explain himself fully.

“I’m inclined to flatter myself,” Mycroft continued, “that I wouldn’t have given in so quickly in years past. Indeed, there were times when I had convinced myself that I had overcome your influence over me, and it would be easier to suppose that, had you approached me with your recovered memories in those intervals, I should have been able to exercise self-restraint. But there’s no use in deceiving you or myself about that now. I would’ve given in to you at any time. I’ve loved you as a brother shouldn't love all these years, and have yearned to confess just as long. So when you appeared at my home, here, months ago, and told me you knew everything, I couldn’t resist jumping at the chance to finally admit my sins and beg forgiveness. I could at last confess to all that I felt for you. Well, no, not even that much.”

Shaking his head, Mycroft chuckled ruefully.

“If I confessed that I still thought of you in an improper fashion, I might have never been able to face you again. Therefore, I confessed in moderation. I told you that I had developed strange feelings for you when we were children, and left it at that. That ought to have been confession enough. You needn’t know that the feelings endured to the present day. But you were persistent. You asked me, ‘When did you stop feeling that way about me?’ And in the end, I could not keep the truth from my face.”

Sherlock remembered all of this. Once Sherlock had observed that Mycroft’s feelings had never changed, the rest of Mycroft’s confession had poured like heavy rain, too long contained in grey clouds.

“And you think you made a mistake,” Sherlock summarized, “by confessing.”

“Yes. I confused you when you were a child…”

“Oh, not that again! You never confused me.”

“I wish I could believe that. Sherlock, I can’t shake the feeling that one day you’re going to come to your senses and hate me.”

“You’ve felt this way all this time?”

“To a degree, though I’ve thought more about it since you asked me if I would spend more time in your flat, with your friends. The truth is that I would like nothing better. It’s monstrous, now that I’m more part of your life than I ever should have been, and yet I crave more, more of your time and your company. More of your voice and your face. Just more of you and what matters to you. And yet, as I explained to you then, I can’t be more involved in your life. Because one day, you’ll come to your senses. You’ll want me gone. You’ll despise me for what I am and what I’ve done with you. Maybe you’ll even wish,” Mycroft said sadly, “that you hadn’t turned the gun away from me, that day at Sherrinford.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock cried, shocked, and grabbed Mycroft by his shoulders. “How can you say that? You can’t say that. It’s not allowed. I could never have gone through with that. It was so hard even to consider it.”

“It would have been a reasonable decision.” Mycroft seemed listless, defeated. “Everything that happened that day was my fault, as is everything that’s happened to you. I was your older brother. I should have known that Eurus needed attention. I should have been able to save your friend Victor. And I shouldn’t have confused you.”

“You’ll be blaming yourself for world hunger, next! You were just a child, not much older than me.”

“Seven years older—that’s a long gap.”

“It’s nothing. How old was I, six? Then you were still a child. Even if you weren’t, you still wouldn’t be responsible for what happened. The same goes for what happened at work—there’s no point in blaming yourself.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, “my sweet little brother, you looked up to me, and I let you down.”

Sherlock had heard about a hypothetical situation concerning an unstoppable force against an immovable object, and that was just how this situation felt. “This isn’t working. I’m not getting through to you. So, I’m going to try something else. Lie down.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, finish taking off your clothes first, and then we’ll both lie down.” When Mycroft paused, Sherlock said pointedly, “well, if you are so confident that this relationship is doomed to fail, you might as well enjoy yourself while you can, right?”

Apparently, Mycroft couldn't argue with that. “I’ve thought much the same,” he admitted, and went to work undressing himself.

Sherlock resumed taking off his clothes also, though he didn’t stop speaking, resolved not to let Mycroft’s doubts get the best of him.

“I’ve enjoyed lying with you, and under you. Especially knowing how you had fantasized about having me under you.”

“I still can’t believe I…”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said in a rush, in no mood to let Mycroft question himself, “well, Mycroft, brother mine, did you ever have a fantasy of the reverse?”

It didn’t take an eye as astute as Sherlock’s to see the answer to that question. Mycroft blushed and a brief shudder passed through him. “Occasionally, perhaps,” he answered weakly.

“Want to make another fantasy real?”

Mycroft swallowed, and after a moment, he whispered, “Oh, Lord, yes.”

They were finally undressed. Mycroft was wavering, possibly as much as when they had first shared this bed, but Sherlock was as determined as ever. He sat on the bed, and drew Mycroft close to him.

He kissed Mycroft lightly, which seemed to help his older brother somewhat. Then Sherlock moved away, knowing well where the lubricant was kept by the bed. Finding it easily, he smothered his fingers with the substance, and wondered what on earth he was doing. He had never done this before and he didn’t know the first thing about it, other than what he’d gleaned from being on the receiving end with Mycroft. But he’d gleaned enough, and in any case, it was his turn to take care of Mycroft.

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, ever observant, “I know you haven’t done this before. Just remember to take your time. There is no hurry.”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft laid down on his front, his head on his arms, and spread his legs apart. A heavy feeling that had been building within Sherlock became heavier and hotter.

“You may prepare me now,” Mycroft said. “If you still want to.”

“Right,” Sherlock replied, though now that he was going about this, his hands were shaking a little. Regardless, he ached terribly in so many ways to take care of his brother and reassure him. He started with one finger.

Mycroft made a low grunt.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft answered softly. “Keep going.”

Emboldened, Sherlock kept going, pushing further and approving of the pleased grunts that Mycroft made. Sherlock was excited, though still nervous and very careful. “Good still?”

“Yes, very good.”

Despite the thrumming in his body becoming more urgent every second, Sherlock focused his attention on preparing Mycroft properly, and Mycroft, helpful as always, gave one or two words of guidance when needed. Before long, Sherlock had found a spot that made Mycroft thrust against the bed, and he’d been tempted to keep touching Mycroft there, though he dropped back when Mycroft warned him things might end too soon should he continue on that course.

Once it seemed like he’d prepared Mycroft enough, Sherlock used the lubricant on himself.

“Are you ready, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked tenderly, committed entirely to caring for his brother.

“Yes, Sherlock.” Leaning into his arms, Mycroft said quietly, “Please. I want you. If, right now, you want me, too, then please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it.”

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was leave. Grasping Mycroft’s hips, Sherlock steadied himself, and pushed his own hips forward.

Mycroft gasped, his body rocking against the bed when Sherlock entered him. “Oh, yes.”

“All right?” Sherlock said unsteadily, breathing harder.

“Oh, yes, Sherlock. Wonderful.”

Shuddering from the intensity of his longing for Mycroft, Sherlock kept himself as stable as he could, and eased himself carefully deeper.

“Oh,” Mycroft moaned. “You’re different from how I imagined you.”

“Better or worse?”

“Different. I imagined you with more experience—it was easier that way, you know—and you were not so slow or careful as you are now.” Then Sherlock had cautiously moved deeper, and Mycroft moaned again. “Ah, but you are gentle and lovely, Sherlock. Oh, yes… I couldn’t have asked for better. This is more than I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock grumbled breathlessly, “You are the best of brothers.”

Mycroft made a strange sound, a mixture of a remorseful chuckle and a fervent moan. “Hah, really, I doubt it.”

“M-Mycroft,” Sherlock stuttered, nearly overwhelmed by the sight and feel of what he was doing with his brother, “did I ever tell you that, that first night, when I fell asleep in your arms for the first time in decades, I dreamed of you?”

“Oh?”

“I dreamed I was sitting with you in the forest by Musgrave Manor… We were children. You were big and s-soft and comforting. I didn’t want to go back home, but you said you’d be there for me… You made me strong. Was that a memory? Did… did that really happen?”

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured, moving with a smooth, elegant, grace against the bed, “I remember the same thing. In fact, I, oh, Sherlock, I remember it very well… It is a m-memory I have sometimes revisited…”

“Revisited?”

“Oh, I can’t think right under you,” Mycroft said quickly, and with a voice that rose and fell with Sherlock’s thrusts like captivating waves on a peaceful shore, “Ah… I meant simply recalled. I’ve recalled that memory on occasion. I don’t enjoy thinking of you in pain, but, oh Lord, Sherlock… it makes me happy that I could give you any solace at all.”

“It would make me happy, Mycroft,” Sherlock breathed, “if I could give you solace, now.”

“Sherlock…”

Seeing that Mycroft was comfortable, and hearing a note of pleading in his older brother’s low moans for more, Sherlock picked up his pace, and Mycroft rumbled agreeably.

“Yes, Sherlock, that’s just right.”

“I love you, Mycroft.”

In a whisper, Mycroft uttered, “What…?”

“I love you, Mycroft; I’m in love with you.” Continuing his rhythm, Sherlock felt terrifically hot and alive, yet what mattered most to him was not his own feelings but those of his brother, who was rocking gracefully under Sherlock and making beautiful sounds.

Feebly, Mycroft tried to argue, “You c-can’t say…”

“I am! Whatever the consequences! Oh, brother mine, I’m in love you.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft cried out. Sherlock felt trembling in the warm, responsive body of his brother, and he saw Mycroft hide his face further into his arms.

“Mycroft…?”

“Keep going, keep going,” Mycroft rasped, “don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

Certainly, Sherlock didn’t want to stop, not when his whole being was absorbed in giving Mycroft pleasure, yet even now he noticed the new tension in Mycroft’s moans and the growing force of his trembling under Sherlock, more than could be accounted for by pure desire.

“Sherlock.” With that shaky gasp, Sherlock knew at once what he had detected the signs of: his cherished brother was crying. “Sherlock! God help me, I’m in love with you, too!”

“Oh, Mycroft…”

“Sherlock…”

Hearing their names so devotedly murmured by the other was enough to finish them both. Sherlock, the less experienced of the pair, already struggling to keep control himself, lost what was left of his control, and he was quickly followed by Mycroft.

Sherlock fell onto the bed, grasping onto his brother and wading through euphoria for a while. Shortly, he gathered his senses, and reached for tissues to clean them both. It was his turn to take care of his brother, after all, and he aspired to be thorough. When he was done, he pulled the blanket up over them, and turned to his stunned brother, whose eyes were still glistening.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, “when people start saying things like that to each other, or if there’s some kind of custom involved that I’m not aware of. I never cared much about that sort of thing, though, so I’ll just say it. I’m in love with you.”

Mycroft blushed, and it was stunning.

It was so stunning that Sherlock was mesmerized, and on impulse he kissed Mycroft’s cheek, which made Mycroft blush a brighter pink. “Come to think of it,” Sherlock smiled, “we tell each other everything now, don’t we? So I think it’s fair to tell you that I’ll always be in love with you.”

“I’ve imagined h-hearing you say lovely things.” Mycroft’s speech was slow and quiet, apparently since he was not finished crying. “But brother mine, you’ve surpassed every fantasy I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock clutched Mycroft’s hand. “Let’s always be together.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft all but choked, as he tried to stifle a sob.

Kissing a tear away, Sherlock murmured, “I won’t leave you. You are my magnificent big brother, and you were always there for me. You always looked after me, and now I’ll look after you, too. I won’t forget you, never again.”

Mycroft shut his eyes, clearly fighting his tears.

Sherlock pulled Mycroft to him, and Mycroft folded easily into the close embrace.

“Let’s forget that arrangement we made, that Agreement,” Sherlock proposed, trying not to push this idea too eagerly, though he’d been leading up to it this whole time. “Let’s be committed to each other, like any other couple. Let’s see each other more often, here, at Baker Street, everywhere. You’ll be big in my life, and I’ll be big in yours, and we’ll be happy.”

Mycroft couldn’t even speak; he could only nod and sob against Sherlock’s chest.

Rubbing Mycroft’s back, doing his best to soothe his brother, Sherlock went on speaking softly.

“You said that I was strong, but you haven’t given yourself enough credit. You’ve had the strength to watch over me while you couldn’t be near me.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said faintly. “It’s starting to look like time I wasted, though.”

“No, I don’t think it was wasted.” Sherlock slipped his fingers up into Mycroft’s hair, and Mycroft relaxed a little. “Brother dear, I’ve enjoyed bantering with you over the years, even if I didn’t show it. No one else was ever so clever or fascinating. But moreover, I suspect that we can only be together now because of what I forgot for so long.”

“What do you mean?”

“It hasn’t occurred to you? No, I suppose it wouldn’t. Naturally, a man who has unusual feelings for a brother, and never forgets it, will not question how society looks upon people like him. But a man who isn’t in that position has an outsider’s perspective. He can look objectively at what adult siblings might do with full consent and say, ‘Why not? It’s no business of mine.’ Perhaps, having been an outsider for so long, that’s why I can see that we’re not hurting anyone, and we should do just as we like.”

“An interesting idea.” Mycroft sniffled. “There might be something to what you say. I suppose there must be some reason you feel that way now—something must have changed, since you thought differently when you were a child, and I confess I still struggle with what we’re doing, even if we aren’t hurting anyone. In any case, what matters is that we’re together now.”

“I couldn’t agree more. And I’ll always be here to assure you that we’re doing nothing wrong. I’d think you’d figure that out sooner or later, but no matter. It makes me feel like the smart one,” Sherlock laughed, and Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock rested his head over Mycroft’s, and continued to rub his back.

After a long, comfortable pause, Sherlock suggested, “When you’re ready, we might go back to Baker Street together. You could say hi to John and Rosie.”

Mycroft considered this. “Yes,” he said, filling Sherlock with delight, “I would like that. Although my presence might make them look askance at first.”

“It might surprise John, but he’ll come around,” Sherlock said with confidence. He hadn’t yet managed to convince John that Mycroft would be a good influence for young Rosie, but Sherlock was sure that John would change his mind eventually. Now that Mycroft was willing to come to the flat more often, John could see Mycroft more and get a better glimpse of the amiable and brilliant man the older Holmes brother really was. “And I believe Rosie’s in a stage where she looks askance at everyone, but she’ll come around, too.”

Mycroft chuckled, and looked up at Sherlock. He was still smiling, and Sherlock smiled back. A fond, unhurried kiss soon followed.

Though they couldn't act this freely in front of others, Sherlock was still glad that he wouldn’t have to thoroughly separate Mycroft from the rest of his life anymore. And more than that, he was thrilled that the Agreement was over, which meant that he was at liberty to return all of Mycroft’s love and devotion at last.

Eager to exercise this new freedom, Sherlock became somewhat overzealous in their kiss, holding Mycroft close and kissing him deeply, but fortunately, Mycroft, returning Sherlock’s embrace and tilting his head just right, didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Now,” Mycroft said, after they had been at it a good long while, “why don’t we head to Baker Street? It has been too long since I’ve seen John.”

“I agree.”

“It will be good to see him, even if you and I won’t be able to kiss in front of him.”

“That is true, but what a shame! It would give him such a shock,” Sherlock laughed. “Can you imagine the look on his face?”

Sherlock started getting dressed, feeling incredibly uplifted, because Mycroft, who had been so dejected and worried before, was laughing too. Mycroft seemed truly joyful. It pleased Sherlock to no end that he had been able to comfort his brother after a rough patch, not unlike how Mycroft had comforted him.

The air around them was cheerful, the future was bright, and Sherlock felt like his world was complete.

End~


End file.
